Katherine Kurtz - Deryni 2 - Deryni Checkmate

You For JOHN G. NELSON who, like the Deryni, strives to hold back the darkness-of whatever kind. A Del Rey Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright (c) 1972 by Katharine Kurtz ISBN 0-345-29224-3 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: May 1972 Seventh Printing: May 1980 DERYNI CHECKMATE CHAPTER ONE Three things there are which defy prediction: a woman's whims, the touch of the Devil's finger, and the weather of Gwynedd in March. St. Veneric, Triads MARCH HAS long been a month of storms in the Eleven Kingdoms. It brings the snow sweeping down from the great northern sea to layer a last coat of winter on the silver mountains, to seethe and swirl around the high plateaus of the east until it finally funnels across the great Gwynedd plain and turns to rain. March is a fickle month at best. It is the last stand of winter against the coming spring, but it is also harbinger of the greening, of the floods which yearly inundate the central lowlands. It has been known to be mild though not recently. Still, it is spring close enough for men to dare hope that winter might end early this year; it has, on occasion. But those who know the ways of Gwynedd do not build their dreams on the chance of an early spring. For they have learned through hard experience that March is capricious, often cruel, and never, never to be trusted. March in the first regnal of King Kelson of Gwynedd was to be no exception. Nightfall had come early in Kelson's capital at Rhemuth. It often did in March, when- the northern storms rolled in across the Purple March from the north and east. This particular storm had struck at midday, pelting the brightly canopied stalls and shops of the market square with hail the size of a man's thumbnail and sending merchants and vendors scurrying for cover. Within an hour, all hope of salvaging the interrupted market day was gone. And so, amidst thunder and rain and the pungent lightning-smell which the wind carried, the merchants had reluctantly packed up their sodden wares, closed up their shops, and left. By dusk, the only people to be found on the rainswept streets were those whose business compelled them to be out on such a night- city watchmen on their rounds, soldiers and messengers on official errands-, citizens scurrying through the wind and cold to the warm hearthsides of their homes. Now, as darkness fell and the great cathedral bells in the north of the city rang Evensong, sleet and rain whined through the narrow, deserted streets of Rhemuth, slashing at the red-tiled roofs and cupolas and filling the cobblelined gutters to overflowing. Behind rain-blurred windowpanes, the flames of countless evening candles shivered and danced whenever a gust of wind managed to force its way through cracks in wooden doors and shutters. And in houses and taverns, inns and roadhouses, inhabitants of the city huddled around their firesides to take their evening meals, sipped good ale and traded yams while they waited for the storm to subside. At the north of the city, the archbishop's palace was likewise under siege from the storm. In the shadow of palace walls, the massive nave of Saint George's Cathedral loomed dark against the blackening sky, stubby bell tower thrust brazenly heavenward, bronze doors sealed tightly against the onslaught.

Leather-cloaked household guards patrolled the ramparts of the palace proper, collars and hoods muffled close against the cold and wet. Torches hissed and flared under sheltered eaves along the battlements as the storm raged and howled and chilled to the .bone. Inside, the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, the Most Reverend Patrick Corrigan, was snug and warm. Standing before a roaring fireplace, pudgy hands extended toward the flames, he rubbed his hands together briskly to further warm them, then pulled his fur-lined robe more closely around him and padded on slippered feet to a writing desk on the opposite side of the room. Another man, also in episcopal violet, was poring over an elaborate parchment manuscript, squinting in the light of two yellow candles on the desk before him. Half a dozen candle sconces placed around the rest of the room made a feeble attempt to further banish the gloom encroaching from the darkness outside. And a youngish-looking priest-secretary hovered attentively over the man's left shoulder with another light, ready to apply red sealing wax when he was told to do so. Corrigan peered over the reader's right shoulder and watched as the man nodded, picked up a quill, and scrawled a bold signature at the foot of the document. The secretary dripped molten wax beside the name, and the man calmly imprinted the wax with his amethyst seal of office. He breathed on the stone and polished it against his velvet sleeve, then looked up at Corrigan and replaced the ring on his finger. "That should take care of Morgan," he said. Edmund Loris, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd was an impressivelooking man. His body was lean and fit beneath the rich violet cassock he wore, and the fine silvery hair formed a wispy halo-effect around the magenta skullcap covering his clerical tonsure. The bright blue eyes were hard and cold, however. And the gaunt hawk-face was anything but beneficent at the moment. For Loris had just affixed his seal to a document which would shortly cause Interdict to fall upon a large portion of Royal Gwynedd. Interdict which would cut off the rich Duchy of Corwyn to the east from all sacraments and solace of the Church in the Eleven Kingdoms. It was a grave decision, and one to which both Loris and his colleague had given considerable thought in the past four months. For in all fairness, the people of Corwyn had done nothing to warrant so extreme a measure as Interdict. But nor, on the other hand, could the true cause of the measure be ignored or tolerated any longer. An abhorrent situation had existed and continued to exist within the archbishops' jurisdiction, and it must be stamped out. And so the prelates salved their consciences with the rationalization that the threat of Interdict was not, after all, directed against the people of Corwyn, but against one man who was impossible to reach in any other way. It was Corwyn's master, the Deryni Duke Alaric Morgan, who was the object of sacerdotal vengeance tonight. Morgan, who had repeatedly dared to use his blasphemous and heretical Deryni powers to meddle in human affairs and corrupt the innocent, in defiance of Church and State. Morgan, who had initiated the boy-king Kelson into the forbidden practice of that ancient magic and loosed a duel of necromancy in the cathedral itself at Kelson's coronation last fall. Morgan, whose half-Deryni ancestry doomed him to eternal torment and damnation in the Hereafter unless he could be persuaded to recant, to give up his powers and renounce his evil heritage. Morgan, around whom the entire Deryni question now seemed to hinge. Archbishop Corrigan frowned and picked up the parchment, his bushy grizzled brows knitting together in a single line as he scanned the text once more. He pursed his lips and scowled as he finished reading, but then he folded the document with a decisive crackle and held it flat on the desk while his secretary applied wax to the overlap. Corrigan sealed it with his ring, but his hand toyed uneasily with the jeweled pectoral cross on his chest as he

eased himself into a chair beside Loris. "Edmund, are you sure we " He halted at Loris' sharp glance, then remembered that his secretary was still awaiting further instructions. "That will be all for the moment, Father Hugh. Ask Monsignor Gorony to step in, please." The priest bowed and left the room, and Corrigan leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "You know that Morgan will never permit Tolliver to excommunicate him/' Corrigan said wearily. "Do you really think the threat of Interdict will stop him?" Duke Alaric Morgan did not technically fall within the jurisdiction of either archbishop, but both were hopeful that the letter on the table would shortly circumvent that small technicality. Loris made a steeple of his fingers and gazed across at Corrigan evenly. "Probably not," he admitted. "But his people may. Rumor has it that a band of rebels in northern Corwyn even now preaches the overthrow of their Deryni duke." "Humph!" Corrigan snorted derisively, picking up a quill pen and dipping it into a crystal inkwell. "What good can a handful of rebels hope to do against Deryni magic? Besides, you know that Morgan's people love him." "Yes, they do now," Loris agreed. He watched as Corrigan began carefully inscribing a name on the outside of the letter they had written, watched with a hidden smile as the tip of his colleague's tongue followed each stroke of the rounded uncials. "But will they love him as well once the Interdict falls?" Corrigan looked up sharply from his finished handiwork, then vigorously sanded the wet ink with pounce from a silver shaker and blew away the excess. "And what of the rebel band then?" Loris continued insistently, eying his companion through narrowed lids. "They say that Warin, the rebel leader, believes himself to be a new messiah, divinely appointed to rid the land of the Deryni scourge. Can you not see how such zealousness could be made to work to our advantage?" Corrigan pulled at his lower lip in concentration, then frowned. "Are we to permit self-appointed messiahs to go gallivanting around the countryside without proper supervision, Edmund? This rebel movement smacks of heresy to me." "I've given no official sanction yet," Loris said. "I've not even met this Warin fellow. But you must admit that such a movement could be highly effective, were it given proper guidance. Besides," Loris smiled, "perhaps this Warin is divinely inspired." "I doubt it," Corrigan scowled. "How far do you propose to pursue the matter?" Loris leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his waist. "The rebel headquarters is reputed to be in the hills near Dhassa, where the Curia meets later this week. Gorony, whom we send to Corwyn's bishop, has been in touch with the rebels and will return to Dhassa when he finishes his current assignment. I hope to arrange a meeting with the rebel leader then." "And until then, we do nothing?" Loris nodded; "We do nothing. I do not want the king to know what we are planning, and " There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Corrigan's secretary and an older, nondescript-looking man in the traveling garb of a simple priest. Father Hugh lowered his eyes and bowed slightly as he announced the newcomer. "Monsignor Gorony, Your Excellency." Gorony strode to Corrigan's chair and dropped to one knee to kiss the archbishop's ring, then stood at Corrigan's signal to wait attentively "Thank you, Father Hugh. I believe that will be all for tonight," Corrigan said, starting to wave dismissal.

Loris cleared his throat, and Corrigan glanced in his direction. "The suspension we spoke of earlier, Patrick? We had agreed that the man must be disciplined, had we not?" "Oh, yes, of course," Corrigan murmured. He rummaged briefly among the papers piled at one corner of the desk, then extracted one and pushed it across the desk to Hugh. "This is the draft of a writ of summons I need as soon as possible, Father. When the official document is drawn up, would you return it for my signature?" "Yes, Excellency/' As Hugh took the paper and headed for the door, Corrigan resumed his conversation with Gorony. "Now, this is the letter you're to deliver to Bishop Tolliver. I've a barge waiting to take you to the free port of Concaradine, and from there you can take ship with one of the merchant fleets. You should be in Corwyn within three days." Father Hugh de Berry frowned as he closed the door to the archbishop's study and began walking down the long, torch-lined corridor toward his chancery office. It was cold and damp, and the corridor was drafty. Hugh shivered and clasped his arms across his chest as he walked, debating what he should do. Hugh was Patrick Corrigan's personal secretary, and as such was privy to information not normally accessible to one of his comparative youth. He was a bright man, if not brilliant. And he had always been honest, discreet, and totally loyal to the Church he served through the person of the archbishop. Lately, though, his faith had been sorely shaken at least his faith in the man he served. The letter he had copied for Corrigan this afternoon had helped to do that. And as he remembered, Hugh shivered again this time, not from the cold. Gwynedd was in danger. This had been apparent since King Brion fell at Candor Rhea last fall. It had been evident when Brion's heir, the boy Kelson, had been forced to battle the evil Charissa for his throne but a few weeks later. And it had been painfully obvious whenever Morgan, the boy's Deryni protector, had had to use his awesome powers to slow down the inevitable conflagration that all knew must follow on the heels of such events. And it would follow. It was no secret, for example, that the Deryni tyrant Wencit of Torenth would plunge the kingdom into war by midsummer at latest. And the young king must certainly he aware of the unrest being generated in his kingdom by rising anti-Deryni sentiment. Kelson had begun to feel the brunt of that reaction ever since the disclosure of his own half-Deryni ancestry at the coronation last fall. But now, with Interdict threatened for all of Corwyn Hugh pressed one hand against his chest where the original draft of Corrigan's letter now rested next to his skin. He knew that the archbishop would not approve of what he was about to do in fact, would be furious if he found out but the matter was too important for the king not to be made aware of it. Kelson must be warned. If Interdict fell on Corwyn, Morgan's loyalties would be divided at a time when all his energies were needed at the king's side. It could fatally affect the king and also Morgan's plans for the war effort. And while Hugh, as a priest, could hardly condone Morgan's fearsome powers, they were nonetheless real and needed if Gwynedd was to survive the onslaught. Hugh paused beneath the torch outside the chancery office door and-began to scan the letter in his hand, hoping the copy could be entrusted to one of his subordinates. Skipping over the archbishop's standard salutation for such documents, he gasped as he read the name of the addressee, then forced himself to reread it Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain. Duncan' Hugh thought to himself. "My God, what's he done?" Duncan McLain was the young confessor to the king, and Hugh's own boyhood

friend. They had grown up together, gone to school together. What could Duncan possibly have done to incur such action? Knitting his brows together in consternation, Hugh read the letter, his apprehension increasing as he read. . . . summarily suspended and ordered fo present yourself before our ecclesiastical court . . . give answer as to why you should not be censured . . . your part in the scandals surrounding the king's coronation November last . . . questionable activities . . . consorting with heretics. . . My God, Hugh thought, unwilling to go on, he's been tainted by Morgan too. I wonder if he knows about this. Lowering the paper, Hugh made his decision. Obviously, he must go to the king first. That had been his original intention, and the matter was of kingdomwide importance. But then he must find Duncan and warn him. If Duncan submitted himself to the archbishop's court under the present circumstances, there was no telling what might happen. He could even be excommunicated. Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself. For the threat of excommunication was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan. Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen. "His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James," he said, casually placing the document on the desk. "Will you take care of it, please? I have a few errands to do." "Certainly, Father," the monk replied. CHAPTER TWO I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient kings. Isaiah 19:11 "MORE VENISON, SIRE?" The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson held out a steaming platter of venison in gravy, but Kelson shook his head and pushed his silver trencher aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head bare of any royal ornament. And he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the £re> wiggling his feet contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began to clear the table. The young king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taperlight winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan's cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was struggling to break the seal on a new bottle of wine. "Do you need help, Nigel?" "Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer," Nigel grunted. "Certainly. Benedicte," Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing. The seal chose that minute to crack, and the cork shot from the neck of the bottle in a rain of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he too could be splashed, but Nigel's best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet. "Holy St. Michael, you didn't have to take me so literally, Duncan!" the

prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. "As I've always said, you can't trust a priest." "I was about to say the same for princes," Duncan observed, winking in Kelson's direction and watching the boy control a smile. The squire Richard wiped Kelson's chair and the bottle, then wrung his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped pick up, goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire. Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the grey Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked every Haldane male. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a strand of jet black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement, Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion's as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies which even now threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war. Now Brion was. gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew. Duncan's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson's crimson livery entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen towel was draped over the lad's shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached Duncan's nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl. Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan's side, would he look at the priest. Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy's shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at Nigel with a mischievous grin. "Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?" he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan knew that this one was special. Nigel gave a proud nod. "Payne, my youngest," he replied. "He has much to learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve officially." Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his long fingers so that the faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire and tapestried walls, "I remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death." He leaned his head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily. "There was no reason to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere fact that I wore court livery shouldn't have made any difference. "And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a royal page serving the king. There's a big difference." He glanced across at Nigel. "Payne felt that tonight. Even though I've known him all his life, used to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his king not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it's always like that?" The squire Richard, who had been turning down the State bed on the other side

of the room, approached Kelson's chair and made a short bow. "Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?" "I don't think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?" The two shook their heads and Kelson nodded. "That's all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard before you leave. There should be a coach standing by later on to take Father Duncan back to the basilica." "You needn't bother," the priest protested. "I'll be 6ne on foot." "And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night's not 6t for man nor beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?" "Aye, My Liege." Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind Richard. "That's a fine young man, Kelson," he said, reaching behind to retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. "He'll be ready for knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I've ever had the pleasure to train. Alaric concurs in that judgment, by the way. Anyone else?" He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson shook his head. Duncan inspected his goblet and found it half empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and thought out loud. "Richard FitzWilliam. He's about seventeen now, isn't he, My Prince?" "Almost eighteen," Kelson corrected. "He's the only son of Baron Fulk FitzWilliam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I'd planned to knight him and a dozen others before we begin the summer campaign in Eastmarch. His father will be pleased." Nigel nodded. "He's one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the way? Any further word from Cardosa?" "Not for the past three months," Kelson replied. "The city has a strong garrison, as you know, but they'll be snowbound for a few more weeks at least. And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates again. We can't possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is done, and it will be too late by then." "So we lose Cardosa," Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup. "And the treaty dies, and war comes," Duncan added. Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his goblet. "Hasn't that been apparent from the start? Brion certainly knew there was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson well, I still think it was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven't lost Cardosa yet." "But we will, Uncle," Kelson murmured, lowering his eyes. "And how many lives will be lost in the exchange?" He twined his fingers together and studied them for a moment before continuing, "I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives against my own, Uncle. Sometimes I wonder if I'm worth it." Duncan reached across to touch Kelson's arm reassuringly. "Kings will always wonder about such things, Kelson. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing the lives that hang in the balance on that day, I shall mourn." The young king looked up with a wry grin. "You always know what to say, don't you, Father? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the conscience of the king who must decide who survives." He lowered his eyes again. "I'm sorry. That sounded bitter, didn't it?" Duncan's reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard's handsome face was tense, almost nervous, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow. "Begging your pardon, Sire, but there's a priest outside who insists he must see ye. I told him ye'd retired for the night, that he should come back tomorrow, but he's most persistent." Before Kelson could reply, a dark cloaked cleric pushed his way past Richard and darted across the room to fling himself on his knees at Kelson's feet. A

stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson's hand as the man approached, and Nigel half-rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But. even as the man's knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across the man's throat in a chokehold, the other with a dagger at the jugular vein, a knee in the small of the man's back. The man grimaced under Richard's rough handling, but made no move to defend himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he closed his eyes tightly and extended his empty hands to either side, tried to ignore the pressure of Richard's arm across his windpipe. "Please, Sire, I wish you no harm," he croaked, wincing slightly as Richard's cold blade touched the side of his neck. "I'm Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop Corrigan's secretary." "Hugh!" Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man and signaling Richard to release him. "What the Devil? Why didn't you say so?" Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan's voice, and now he stared pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his resolution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at Duncan's repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to finger the slim stiletto he had produced when the man approached. "You know this man, Father?" Kelson asked. "He is who he claims to be," Duncan replied cautiously, "though I cannot speak for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?" Hugh swallowed with" difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. "I beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I could trust to no one else, and " He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then began withdrawing a folded piece of parchment from inside his damp cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair glistened with a mist of fine droplets in the dancing taperlight. His fingers trembled as he handed the parchment across to Kelson. He averted his eyes again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking. Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hidden wrist sheath before unfolding the parchment. As Njgel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to read over the boy's shoulder. The priest's face darkened as he scanned the lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Restraining his rising anger, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes stormy, grim. "Richard, would you please wait outside," he murmured, flicking his gaze to Hugh's bowed head. "I will vouch for this man's conduct." "Aye, Father." As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat wearily. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands, looked up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table. "I thank you for this information, Father," Kelson said, motioning Hugh to rise. "And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the necessity under the circumstances." "Of course, Sire," Hugh murmured self-consciously. "You had no way of knowing what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own impetuosity." Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to notice as he glanced at the parchment again. "I assume this letter has gone out by now," he said, catching Hugh's affirmative nod. "Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?" "Satan doom them both to nine eternal torments.' Duncan whispered under his breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook

his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round. "Forgive me, My Prince," he murmured. "It means that Loris and Corrigan have finally decided to do something about Alaric. I've been expecting some kind of action for months now, but I never dreamed they'd dare to interdict all of Corwyn for the actions of one man." "Well, apparently they have dared," Kelson said uneasily. "Can we stop them?" Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. "Not directly. We have to remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to the whole Deryni question. He's the highest placed of any known Deryni in the kingdom, and he's never tried to hide what he is. He was never blatant in his use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand and he had to use his powers or see you die." "And to the archbishops," Nigel interjected, "magic is evil, and that is that. Also, don't forget how Alaric repeatedly made fools of them at the coronation last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move." Kelson slouched in his chair and studied a ruby ring on his right forefinger. "So it's to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can't afford a religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?" Duncan shook his head. "I don't know. I'll have to discuss it with Alaric. Hugh, do you have any further background for us? Who's delivering the letter? And how?" "Monsignor Gorony, from Loris's staff," Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. "He and an armed escort are taking a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and wfll sail with a merchant fleet from there." "I know Gorony," Duncan nodded. "Was anything added to the final draft of the letter? Anything that isn't in here?" He tapped the parchment with a wellmanicured forefinger. "Nothing," Hugh replied. "I made the final copy from this one," he gestured toward the letter on the table, "and I watched both of them sign and seal it. I don't know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea what they may have said to him in advance." "I see." Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. "Is there anything else we should know?" Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was another message, of course. But he had not counted on Duncan's earlier angry reaction, and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would not be easy, no matter' how he phrased it. "There is something else you should know, Duncan." He paused, unable to look up. "I had not thought to find you here, but there is another matter which came under my pen tonight. It concerns you personally." "Me?" Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. "Go on. You may speak freely here." "It isn't that." Hugh swallowed with difficulty. "Duncan, Corrigan is suspending you. He's calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning." "What?" Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did, and his face was ashen against the black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes. "I'm sorry, Duncan," he whispered. "Apparently the archbishop thinks you were responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty's coronation last fallbegging your pardon, Sire," he glanced at Kelson. "He gave me his draft of the writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I'd told His Majesty about the other matters." He dared to look at Duncan finally, and whispered, "Duncan, are you mixed up in magic?" Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all

pupil. "Suspended," he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh's question. "And called before his court." He looked at Kelson. "My Prince, I must not be here tomorrow when that writ is served. It's not that Fm afraid you know that. But if Corrigan takes me into custody now ,.." Kelson nodded gravely. "I understand. What do you want me to do?" Duncan thought a moment, looked guardedly at Nigel, then at Kelson. "Send me to Alaric, Sire. He must be warned of the threat of Interdict anyway, and I'll be safe from Corrigan at his court. It may even be that I can sway Bishop Tolliver to delay implementation of the Interdict." "Ill give you a dozen of my best men," Kelson agreed. "What else?" Duncan shook his head, trying to formulate a plan of action. "Hugh, you say that Gorony took the sea route. That's a three-day journey by ship, possibly less in storm weather if they pile on all canvas. Nigel, how are the roads between here and Alaric's capital this time of year?" 'Terrible. But you should be able to make it ahead of Gorony if you change horses along the way. Also> the weather gets a little better as you go south." Duncan ran a weary hand through his short brown hair and nodded. "All right, I'll have to try it At least I'll be out of Corrigan's jurisdiction once I cross the Corwyn border. Bishop Tolliver has been a friend of sorts in the past. I doubt he'd arrest me on Colony's word alone. Besides, Gorony hopefully won't know about Corrigan's summons, even if he does get there ahead of me." "It's settled, then," Kelson said, standing and nodding in Hugh's direction. "Father, I thank you for your loyalty. It shall not go unrewarded. But will it be safe for you to return to the archbishop's palace after what you've told us? I can offer my protection, if you like. Or you could go with Father Duncan." Hugh smiled. "My thanks for your concern, Sire, hut I believe I can serve you best if I return to my duties. I'll not have been missed yet, and I may be able to tell you more at a later date." "Very well," Kelson nodded. Good luck to you, Father." "Thank you, Sire," Hugh bowed. "And Duncan," he paused to clasp Duncan's hand and search his eyes, "be careful, my friend. I don't know what you've done and I don't want to know, but my prayers will be with you." Duncan touched his shoulder in reassurance and nodded, and then Hugh was gone. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Duncan picked up the parchment and began refolding it, the crisp rustle the only sound in the still room. Now that he had a plan, his initial anger and shock were well under control, but he watched Kelson as he slipped the letter into his violet cincture. The boy was standing beside his chair, staring unseeing at the door and apparently oblivious to the fact that there was anyone else in the room. Nigel still sat at the table across from Duncan, but he too had withdrawn into a private world. Duncan picked up his goblet and drained it, noticing the bent rim and realizing that he must have done it. He replaced the goblet silently and looked toward Kelson. "I plan to take Hugh's letter with me if you have no objections, My Prince. Alaric will want to see it." "Yes, of course," Kelson replied, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Uncle, will you see about the escort? And tell Richard he's to go along. Father Duncan may have need of a good man." "Certainly, Kelson." Nigel rose catlike and moved toward the door, slapping Duncan's shoulder as he passed. Then the door was closed, and there were only the two of them. Kelson had moved to the fireplace as Nigel left, and now he stared intently into the flames, resting his forehead on folded forearms along the edge of the mantel.

Duncan clasped his hands behind him and studied the floor uncertainly. There were things that onlv he and Kelson and Alaric had ever talked about, and he sensed it was something of this nature that was troubling the boy now. He had thought at the time that Kelson had taken this evening's events far too calmly, but he didn't dare wait much longer to get on the road. Corrigan just might decide to serve that writ tonight. And the longer Duncan waited, the farther aliead Gorony would be with the fateful letter. Duncan cleared his throat gently, saw Kelson's shoulders stiffen at the sound. "Kelson," he said quietly, "I have to go now." "I know." "Is there any message I should take for Alaric?" "No." The boy's voice was husky, strained. "Just tell him tell him " He turned toward Duncan, his face pale, desperate. Duncan moved to his side in alarm, took him by the shoulders and gazed deeply into the wide, frightened eyes. The boy stood stiff and straight, fists clenched tightly at his sides, not in defiance but in fear. And the grey eyes filling with unbidden tears were no longer the eyes of a brave young king who had vanquished evil to keep his throne, but those of a child forced too soon and too long to function as an adult in a complex world. Duncan sensed all of this in less than a heartbeat, and he stared down at the boy in compassion. For all the young king's maturity, he was still a boy of fourteen and a frightened one at that. "Kelson?" "Please be careful, Father," the boy whispered, his voice trembling on the brink of tears. On impulse, Duncan pulled the boy to him and held him close, felt the proud young shoulders shudder convulsively as- he surrendered to the rare luxury of tears. As Duncan stroked the raven head, he felt the boy relax, heard the stifled sobbing diminish. He hugged the boy closer still in a short gesture of comfort, then began to speak softly. "Shall we talk about it, Kelson? It isn't nearly as terrifying if you look it in the eye." "Yes it is," Kelson sniffed, his voice muffled agaipst Duncan's shoulder. "Well, now, I don't like to contradict kings, but I'm afraid you're wrong this time, Kelson. Suppose we consider the worst that can possibly happen and work up from there." "V-very well." "All right, then. Whafs on your mind?" Kelson pulled away slightly and looked up at Duncan, then wiped his eyes and turned toward the fireplace, still in the protective circle of Duncan's left arm. "What " he whispered tremulously, "what will happen if you and Alaric are taken, Father?" "Hmm, that depends on when and by whom," Duncan answered lightly, trying to reassure the boy. "Suppose Loris captures you?" Duncan considered the question. "Well, first I'd have to answer before the ecclesiastical court. If they could prove anything, which is open to debate, they could degrade me from the priesthood, strip away my orders. I might even be excommunicated." "What if they found out you were half-Deryni?" the boy persisted. "Would they try to kill you?" Duncan raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "They wouldn't like it at all if they were to discover that," he agreed, skirting the issue. "I should imagine I'd be excommunicated for sure if that were to happen. However, that's one very good reason I don't plan to let myself be taken. It would be awkward to say the least." Kelson smiled in spite of himself. "Awkward. Yes, I suppose it would. Could

you kill them if you had to?" "I'd rather not," Duncan replied. "Another reason for not allowing them to catch me in the first place." "What about Alaric?" "Alaric?" Duncan shrugged. "It's difficult to say, Kelson. So far, Loris seems willing to settle for repentance. If Alaric renounces his powers and vows never to use them again, Loris will call off the Interdict." "Alaric will never recant," Kelson said fiercely. "Oh, I'm certain he won't," Duncan- agreed. "In that case, the Interdict falls on Corwyn and we will begin to get political as well as religious repercussions." Kelson looked up startled. "Why political? What will happen?" "Well, since Alaric is the stated cause of the Interdict, the men of Corwyn will probably refuse to rally under his banner for the summer campaign, thus costing you approximately twenty percent of your fighting force. Alaric will be excommunicated, along with me, I'm sure. And that brings you further into the picture." "Me? How?" "Simple. Once Alaric and I are anathema, we carry excommunication with us like a plague. Anyone who associates with us is included in the decree. So that leaves you with two choices. You can obey the dire fates of the archbishops and banish me and Alaric, thereby losing your best general on the eve of war. Or you can say the Devil with the archbishops and receive Alaric and end up with all of Gwynedd under Interdict." "They wouldn't dare!" "Ah, but they would. Up until now your rank has protected you, Kelson. But I fear that even that will end shortly. Your mother has seen to that." Kelson hung his head, remembering the scene a week before how, unwittingly perhaps, his mother had set the stage for all that was now happening. "But I don't understand why you have to go so far," Kelson was arguing. "Why St. Giles? You know that's only a few hours' ride from the Eastmarch border. There's going to be heavy fighting there in a few months." Jehana calmly continued her packing, choosing garments from her wardrobe and handing them to a lady-in-waiting who was putting them in a leather-bound trunk. She was still in mourning for her dead husband, for it had been only four months since Brion's death. But her shining head was uncovered, the long auburn hair cascading smoothly down her back in a streak of red-gold, held only by'a simple gold clasp at the nape of the neck. She turned to glance at Kelson, and Nigel frowning behind him, then returned to her work, her outward manner calm and dispassionate. "Why St. Giles?" she answered. "I suppose because I stayed there for a few months many years ago, Kelson before you were born. It's something I have to do if I'm to be able to live with myself." "There are a dozen places that would be safer if you feel you absolutely have to go," Nigel replied, pleating and unpleating a fold of his dark blue cloak in a disturbed gesture. "We're going to have enough to worry about without wondering if some raiding party has come and carried you off or worse." Jehana smiled and shook her head gently, looking the royal duke in the eyes. "Dear Nigel, brother, how can I make you understand? I have to go. And I have to go to Shannis Meer. If I were to stay here, knowing what's corning, knowing that Kelson will use his powers when and where he must, I would be tempted to use my own to try to stop him. "I know in my mind that I dare not not if he's to survive. And yet my heart, my soul, everything I've ever been taught all tell me he must not be permitted to use those powers under any circunstances, that they're corrupt, evil." She turned to Kelson. "If I stayed, Kelson, I might destroy you." "Could you really, Mother?" Kelson whispered. "Could you, a full Deryni

despite your efforts to renounce that fact* truly destroy your own son because he is forced by circumstances to use the powers you gave him?" Jehana reacted as though she had been struck, turned her back to Kelson and leaned heavily against a chair, head bowed as she strove to control her trembling. "Kelson," she began, her voice small, childlike, "don't you see? I may be Deryni, but I don't feel Deryni. I feel human. I think human. And as a human, I've been taught all my life that to be Deryni is to be evil, wrong." She turned to Kelson, her eyes wide and frightened. "And if the people I love most are Deryni, use Deryni powers Kelson, don't you see how it's tearing me apart? Kelson, I desperately fear that it's going to be human against Deryni again, as it was two hundred years ago. I don't think I can bear to be in the middle of it." "You're already in the middle of it," Nigel snapped, "whether you like it or not. And if it does come to human against Deryni, you don't even have a side!" "I know," Jehana whispered. "Then why St. Giles?" Nigel continued angrily. "That's Archbishop Loris' bailiwick. Do you think he can help you resolve your conflict an archbishop who's known for his anti-Deryni persecutions in the north? He's going to act soon, Jehana. He can't ignore what happened at the coronation much longer. And when he does make his move, I doubt that even Kelson's position will protect him for long." "You can't change my mind," Jehana said steadily. "I'm leaving for Shannis Meer today. I intend to go to the sisters of St. Giles to fast and pray for guidance. But it has to be that way, Nigel. Right now, I am nothing. I can't be human and I can't be Deryni. And until I can discover which I am, I'm of no use to anyone." "You're of use to me, Mother," Kelson said quietly, gazing across at her with hurt grey eyes. "Please stay." "I cannot," Jehana whispered, choking back a sob. "If if I commanded you as king," Kelson quavered, the cords in his neck rippling as he fought back the tears, "would you stay then?" Jehana stiffened for an instant, her eyes clouding with pain, then turned away, her shoulders shaking. "Don't make me answer that, Kelson/' she managed to whisper. "Please don't ask me." Kelson started to move toward her, to try to entreat her further, but Nigel put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Motioning Kelson to follow, he moved to the door and opened it quietly, waited as Kelson reluctantly joined him. But the steps of both had been slow and heavy as they left the room. And the quiet sobbing closed behind the door still lingered in Kelson's mind. Kelson swallowed hard and studied the flames in the fireplace before him. "Do you think the archbishops will attack me, then?" "Perhaps not for a while," Duncan said. "So far, they've chosen to ignore the fact that you're Deryni too. But they won't ignore it if you defy an interdict." "I could destroy them/" Kelson murmured, fists clenching and eyes narrowing as he considered his powers. "But you won't," Duncan stated emphatically. "Because if you use your powers against the archbishops whether or not they deserve it that will be final proof to the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms that the Deryni do, indeed, intend to destroy Church and State and set up a new Deryni dictatorship. You must give the lie to that charge by avoiding a confrontation at all costs." "Then, is it stalemate, Father? Me against the Church?" "Not the Church, My Prince." "Very well, then. The men wKo control the Church. It's the same thing, isn't it?" "Not at all." Duncan shook his head. "It's not the Church we fight, though it

may seem that way at first glance. It's an idea, Kelson. The idea that different is evil. That because some men are born with extraordinary powers and talents, those men are evil, no matter to what purpose they put those powers. "We're fighting the idiotic notion that a man is responsible for the accident of his birth. That because a few men made grave errors in the name of a race over three hundred years ago, the whole race is damned and must forever suffer the consequences, generation after generation. "That's what we're fighting, Kelson. Corrigan, Loris, even Wencit of Torenth they're merely pawns in the larger struggle to prove that a man is worth something for himself alone, for what he does with his life, wh'ether for good or for evil, with the talents he was born with, whatever he may be. Does any of that make sense?" Kelson smiled self-consciously and lowered his eyes. "You sounded like Alaric just then. Or my father. He used to talk to me that way." "He'd be very proud of you, Kelson. He was very fortunate to have a son like you. If I had a son . . ." He looked down at Kelson and a glance passed between them. Then Duncan squeezed the boy's shoulder reassuringly and stepped back to the table. "I'm going then, My Prince. Alaric and I will make every effort to keep you informed of our progress or lack thereof. Meanwhile, trust Nigel. Rely on him. And whatever you do, don't intimidate the archbishops until Alaric and I have time to circumvent them." "Don't worry, Fafher," Kelson smiled. "I won't do anything hasty. I'm not afraid any more." "Just as long as that Haldane temper doesn't get out of hand," Duncan admonished with a grin. 'Til see you in Culdi in a week or so. The Lord keep you safe, My Prince." "And you, Father," Kelson whispered as the priest disappeared through the door. CHAPTER THREE I am a man: I hold that nothing human is alien to me. Terence " 'AND OF the total, a two-fold increase over the last year's harvest, owing to good weather. Thus endeth the account of William, Reeve of the Ducal Estates at Donneral, rendered in March, the fifteenth year of the Duke's Grace, Lord Alaric of Corwyn.' " Lord Robert of Tendal looked up from the document he had been reading and frowned as he glanced across at his employer. The duke was gazing out the solarium window to the barren garden below, his thoughts miles away. His booted feet were propped casually on a green leather footstool, and his blond head rested lightly against the high back of the carved wooden chair. It was obvious from the younger man's expression that he had not been listening. Lord Robert cleared his throat tentatively, but there was no response. He pursed his lips and regarded his duke wistfully for another moment, then picked up the account roll from which he'd been reading and let it fall from a height of about two feet. Its impact echoed in the confines of the narrow chamber, rustling the documents and account rolls assembled on the table and breaking the duke's reverie. Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan looked up with a start and tried in vain to cover a sheepish grin as he realized he'd been caught daydreaming. "Your Grace, you haven't heard a word I've said," Robert muttered reprovingly. Morgan shook his head and smiled, rubbed a lazy hand across his face. "I'm sorry, Robert. I was thinking of something else." "Obviously."

As Robert reshuffled the documents he'd disturbed in his outburst, Morgan stood and stretched. He ran an absent hand through his close-cropped blond hair as he glanced around the sparsely furnished solarium, then sat down again. "Very well," he sighed, leaning forward to probe at the parchment halfheartedly with a ringed forefinger. "We were doing the Donneral accounts, weren't we? Do they seem to be in order?" Robert pushed his chair back a few inches and flung down his pen. "Of course they're in order, Alar-ic. But you know we have to go through this formality. These accounts represent a sizeable portion of your land holdings holdings which you will shortly be losing as part of the Lady Bronwyn's dowry. And even if you and Lord Kevin are inclined to take each other's words in such matters, Kevin's father the duke is not/" "Kevin's father the duke is not marrying my sister!" Morgan retorted. He glanced sidelong at Robert for a long moment, theri let his wide mouth relax in a smile. "Come, Robbie, be a good fellow and let me go for the rest of the day. You and I both know those accounts are correct. If you won't let me out of reviewing them altogether, let's at least postpone until tomorrow." Robert tried to look very stern and disapproving, then gave in and threw up his hands. "Very well, Your Grace," he said, gathering up his account rolls and tallies. "But as your chancellor I am constrained to point out that the wedding is less than two weeks away. And you have court tomorrow, and the Hort of Orsal's ambassador arrives tomorrow, and Lord Henry de Vere wants to know what you intend to do about Warin de Grey, and " "Yes, Robert; tomorrow, Robert," Morgan said, assuming his most innocent expression and only barely controlling a grin of triumph. "And now may I be excused, Robert?" Robert rolled Kis eyes heavenward in a silent appeal for patience, then waved dismissal with a gesture of defeat. Morgan jumped up and bowed with a certain ironic flourish, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solarium to the great hall beyond. Robert watched him go, remembering the slender, tow-headed boy who had become this man Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of the King's Armies, King's Champion and a half-Deryni sorcerer. Robert crossed himself furtively at that last thought, for Morgan's Deryni heritage was one thing he preferred not to remember about the Corwyn family he had served all his life. Not that the Corwyns had not been good to him, he rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary chancellorship of Corwyn for two hundred years now, since before the Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair and honest rulers, even if they were Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert found he had no complaints, Of course, he had to put up with Morgan's capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon. Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally.... Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had curtailed the accounting for the afternoon. For though Morgan had probably conveniently forgotten about ft, there was to be a state dinner in the great hall tonight. And if he, Robert, did not coordinate it, the affair was sure to be a resounding failure. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. And the fact that a number of eligible ladies would be present who keenly desired to become tbe next Duchess of Corwyn was not going to improve the duke's disposition. Whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon's session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the

scrutiny of those ladies tonight. Robert could hardly wait. Morgan scanned the courtyafd automatically as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable boy running beside a huge chestnut destrier, one of the R'Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy's. And to the left by the forge, Morgan's young military aide, Scan Lord Derry, was talking earnestly with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to agree on how the animal should be shod. Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were a very important subject with" young Derry. He considered himself an expert; and, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith. Morgan was glad that Derry didn't join him. Astute as the young marcher lord might be, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while Morgan enjoyed Dory's company, he didn't feel like talking just now. That was why he'd fled Lord Robert's account briefing, why he'd bolted outside at the first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later tonight. He reached a side gate to the left of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably mean he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he wouldn't be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens. Morgan began to walk slowly down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation, only delayed, not solved, by Kelson's defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice lan, too, but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast. And Cardosa tKat was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws were nearly over two months hence. And that would be too late. He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the dead garden and gazed absently into the depths. The gardeners had clea/ed away the winter's debris and restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended in time and space. He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished and they would come. But the thought did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection of the tall blond man who started back at him. Wide grey eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped to only a few inches for ease of care in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones. He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at the reflection of the golden gryphon blazoned aesthetically but incorrectly

across his chest. He didn't like the outfit The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black, not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stack in his belt was a travesty of weaponry an elegant but useless accoutrement his wardrober, Lord Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image. Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice which he had to admit was most of the time he preferred dark velvets covering mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court. Still, he supposed he must make a few dress concessions. The people of Corwyn did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service at the court in Rhemuth and such. When they did, they had a right to expect that he would dress befitting his rank. They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not his only weapon there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard on his left forearm, as well as other aids still, they would doubtless be chagrined were they to learn that he would wear light mail under his finery at dinner tonight. Quite chagrined. For to humans that betokened a mistrust of one's guests a terrible breach of etiquette. At least this would be one of the last state dinners for a while, Morgan thought, as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king's service for another season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead. But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the gravel far to his right, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled. "What's wrong, Hillary?" Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a hasty salute. "I'm not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Carah'ghter fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the tide shifts. Your flagship, Rhafallia, is in the lead, and she's flying royal dispatch signals. I think it could be the mobilization order, m'lord." "I doubt it," Morgan shook his head. "Kelson wouldn't entrust that important a message to ship transport. He'd send a courier." He frowned. "I thought the fleet went only as far as Concaradine this trip." "Those were their orders, m'lord. And they're back a day early at that." "Strange," Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. "Still send an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And let me know as soon as they've arrived." "Aye, m'lord." As the man moved off, Morgan ran a puzzled hand through his hair and began walking again. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed. He almost never did that. Especially with the uncertainty of the weather farther north this time of year. The whole thing had an ominous ring to it, like like the dream! He suddenly remembered what he'd dreamed last night. In fact, now that he considered it, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day. He'd slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off and on at will. But last night he'd been plagued by nightmares vivid, frightening scenes which had made him wake in a cold sweat. He'd seen Kelson, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he could see and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he'd come to associate with legend last fall-Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of

Deryni magic. Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, that dim, cavernous recess which had been the private retreat and meditation place of the Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself. But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away trie winter's debris with his boot and made his way into the cool interior. The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant twenty feet above the level of the garden, the outer outline disguised as a rocky outcropping of stone in the midst of the garden paths. In spring and summer, small trees and bushes flourished green on the outside of the mass, with flowers of every hue. Water trickled down one side in a perpetual waterfall. But inside, the structure had been fashioned to look like a natural cave, the walls irregular, rough, damp. As Morgan stepped into the inner chamber, he felt the closeness of the low ceiling arched above him. A swath of weak sunlight streamed through a high' barred and grilled window on the opposite side of the chamber, falling on the stark black marble sarcophagus which dominated that side of the room the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn's first duke. A carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber. There was a candlestick with a stump of candle on the sarcophagus, but the metal was dulled by a winter's disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down. But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor today. It was the rest of the chamber he was interested in the side walls of the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those whose special favor was thought to be on the House of Corwyn. Scanning briefly, Morgan saw representations of the Trinity, the Archangel Michael slaying the Dragon of Darkness, Saint Raphael the Healer, Saint George with his dragon. There were others, but Morgan was interested in only one. Turrfing to the left, he took three practiced steps which carried him to the opposite side of the chamber, then held his torch aloft before the portrait of Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum. Morgan had never quite resolved his strange fascination for the being of the portrait. In fact, he had only really become aware of Camber's importance last fall, when he and Duncan were struggling to keep Kelson on the throne. He'd had "visions" then. At first there had been only the fleeting impression of that other's presence, the eerie feeling that other hands and powers were assisting his own. But then he had seen the face or he thought he had seen the face. And it had always appeared in connection with something concerned with the legendary Deryni saint. Saint Camber. Camber of Culdi. A name to resound in the annals of Deryni history. Camber, who had discovered, during the dark days of the Interregnum, that the awesome Deryni powers could sometimes be bestowed on humans; Camber, who had turned the tide for the Restoration and brought the human rulers of old back to power. He had been canonized for it. A grateful people could not find high enough praise for the man who had brought the hated Deryni dictatorship to an end. But human memory was short. And* in time the sons of man forgot that salvation as well as suffering had come from the hands of the Deryni. The brutal reaction which swept through the Eleven Kingdoms then had been a thing most humans wished to forget. Thousands of innocent Deryni perished by the sword or in other, more perverse ways, in supposed retribution for what their fathers had done. When it was over, only a handful survived most of them in hiding, a few under the tenuous protection of a minute number of powerful human lords who remembered how it had really been. Needless to say, Camber's sainthood had

been one of the first casualties. Camber of Culdi, Defensor Hominum. Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic. Camber of Culdi, at whose portrait a descendant of that same race of sorcerers now gazed with impatient curiosity, trying to fathom the strange bond he seemed to have acquired with the long-dead Deryni Lord. Morgan held his torch closer to the mosaic and studied the face, trying to force finer detail to emerge from the rough texture of the inky. The eyes stared back at him light eyes above a firm, resolute chin. The rest was obscured by the monkish cowl draped around the head, but Morgan had the distinct impression that the man would have been blond, had the hood been permitted to fall back. He couldn't say why. Perhaps it was a carryover from the visions he'd encountered. Idly, he wondered whether the visions would ever resume, felt a shiver of apprehension ripple down his spine as the thought crossed his mind. It couldn't be Saint Camber really. Or could it? Lowering the torch, Morgan stepped back a pace, still looking at the mosaic portrait. While not irreligious by any means, he found that the idea of divine or semidivine intervention on his behalf bothered him. He didn't like the idea of Heaven being that watchful of him. Still, if not Saint Camber, then who? Another Deryni? No human could do the things the being had done. And if Deryni, why didn't he say so? Surely he must realize what Morgan would be thinking about such manifestations. And he seemed to be helping; but why the secrecy? Maybe it was Saint Camber. He shuddered and crossed himself self-consciously at the thought, then shook himself back to sanity. Such thinking was getting him nowhere. He must pull his thoughts together. Abruptly, he heard a commotion ensuing in the courtyard on the other side of the garden, and then Jh,'running footsteps coming through the garden in his direction. "Morgan! Morgan?" It was Derry's voice. Slipping back through the access way, Morgan jammed his torch into the wall bracket and stepped out into the sunlight. As he did, Derry spotted him and changed course, running across the grey garden toward the duke. "M'lord!" Derry yelled, his face alight with excitement. "Come out to the courtyard. See who's here!" "Rhafaflia's not in port already, is she?" Morgan called as he headed toward the young man. "No, sir," Derry laughed, shaking his head. "You'll have to see for yourself. Come on!" Mystified, Morgan started back across the garden, raising an inquiring eyebrow as he reached Derry and fell into step beside him. Derry was beaming from ear to ear a reaction which could indicate the presence of a good horse, a beautiful woman, or "Duncan!" Morgan finished aloud as he stepped through the gate and saw his cousin across the courtyard. There was Duncan swinging down from a huge, mud-splattered grey destrier, his black cloak damp and wind-whipped, the edge of his riding cassock torn and muddied. Ten or twelve guards in Kelson's royal crimson livery dismounted around him, and Morgan recognized Kelson's own squire, young Richard FitzWilliam, holding the grey's bridle as Duncan dismounted. "Duncan! You old reprobate!" Morgan exclaimed, striding across the damp cobblestones of the courtyard. "What the Devil are you doing in Coroth?" "Visiting you," Duncan replied, blue eyes twinkling with pleasure as he and Morgan came together in a quick embrace. "Things weren't exciting enough in Rhemuth, so I thought I'd come pester my favorite cousin. Frankly, my archbishop was overjoyed to be rid of me."

"Well, it's good he can't see you now," Morgan said, grinning widely as Duncan pulled a pair of saddlebags from the grey's back and slung them casually over his arm. "Just look at you covered with mud and smelling like horses. Come on and let's get you cleaned up. Derry, see that Duncan's escort is taken care of, will you? And then see if you can get my squires to draw him a bath." "Right away, m'lord," Derry said, smiling and bowing slightly as he backed a few steps in the direction of the riders. "And welcome back to Coroth, Father Duncan." "Thank you, Derry." As Derry moved among the guards and began issuing orders, Morgan and Duncan bounded up the steps and into the great hall. The hall was a flurry of activity in preparation for the coming banquet, and scores of servants and workmen were setting up heavy trestle tables and benches, rehanging the costly tapestries which had been removed and cleaned for the occasion. Kitchen varlets swarmed through the hall, sweeping hearths and readying spits for the roasting of meats. And a group of pages was industriously polishing the ornate wooden chairs at the High table. Lord Robert stood by to oversee the entire operation. As the workmen finished setting up each table, Robert directed kitchen wenches in the wiping down with oil to bring out the rich patina of age and supervised the placing of the great pewter candelabras and service from the ducal treasury. To his right, Lord Hamilton, the balding seneschal of Castle Coroth, had been arranging the placement of musicians for the evening's entertainment. At the moment, he was en* gaged in a heated argument with Morgan's chief talent for the evening, the much acclaimed and celebrated troubadour Gwydion. As Morgan and Duncan approached, the little performer was almost dancing in his anger, resplendent as a peacock in his full-sleeved orange doublet and hose. His black eyes snapped in outrage as he stamped his foot and half-turned away from Hamilton in disgust. Morgan caught his eye and crooked his finger for Gwydion to approach, and the troubadour threw Hamilton one final haughty look of contempt before gliding to Morgan's side to bow curtly. "Your Grace, I cannot work with that man any longer! He is arrogant, boorish, and has no artistic rapport whatsoever!" Morgan tried to conceal a smile. "Duncan, I have the somewhat dubious honor to present Master Gwydion ap Plenneth, the latest and most illustrious addition to my court. I might also add that he sings the finest ballads in the Eleven Kingdoms when he's not quarreling with my staff, that is. Gwydion, my paternal cousin, Monsignor Duncan McLain." "Welcome to Coroth, Monsignor," Gwydion murmured formally, ignoring Morgan's implied reprimand. "His Grace has spoken of you often and well. I trust your stay will be a pleasant one." "I thank you," Duncan replied, returning the bow. "Back in Rhemuth, you're reputed to be the finest troubadour since the Lord Llewelyn. I trust you will see fit to prove that reputation before I must leave." "Gwydion shall play tonight if he is permitted to arrange the musicians as he wishes, Monsignor," the troubadour bowed. He glanced at Morgan. "But if Lord Hamilton persists in his malicious persecution, I fear I shall develop a splitting headache. That, of course, would make it quite impossible for me to perform." He drew himself up haughtily and folded his arms across his chest in a theatrical gesture of finality, then contemplated the ceiling with studied nonchalance. It was all Morgan could do to keep from laughing. "Very well," the duke said, clearing Kis throat to cover his smile. "Tell Hamilton I said you can arrange things any way you like. I want no more quarreling, though. Do you understand?" "Of course, Your Grace." With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode back across the hall to

where he had been working, arms still folded across his chest. As he approached, Lord Hamilton saw him and glanced at Morgan as though asking for support, but Morgan merely shook his head and gestured toward Gwydion with his chin. With a sigh that was almost audible even across the room, Hamilton nodded acquiescence and disappeared through another door. Gwydion took over where Hamilton had left off, directing the complete rearrangement of the musicians' area and strutting like a bantam rooster. "Is he always that temperamental?" Duncan asked, somewhat taken aback, as he and Morgan continued on through the hall and up a flight of narrow stairs. "Not at all. He's usually worse." They came to the top of the staircase and Morgan opened a heavy door. A few feet beyond that was another door, heavy walnut inlaid with an enameled Corwyn gryphon. Morgan touched the eye of the beast with his signet, and the door opened silently. Inside was Morgan's private study, his chamber of magic, his sanctum sanctorum. It was a round room perhaps thirty feet in diameter, perched atop the highest tower in the ducal castle. The walls were of heavy stone, pierced only by seven narrow green glass windows which extended from eye level to ceiling. At night, when the candles burned late in the round tower room, the tower could be seen for miles around, its seven green windows glowing like beacons in the night sky. There was a wide fireplace in the wall ninety degrees to the right of the doorway, with a raised hearth which extended six to eight feet to either side. Above the mantel hung a silk banner of the same Gryphon design which graced the door, and various other objects rested along the top of the mantel. A tapestry map of the Eleven Kingdoms covered the wall directly opposite the door, with a wide, heavily laden bookcase beneath it. There was an immense desk with a carved wooden chair to the left of the bookcase, and a wide couch covered with a black fur throw to the left of that. Immediately to the. left of the door was the tiny portable altar Duncan had known he would find, with a plain, dark wood prie-dieu before it. All these things took but an instant to assess, however. For Duncan's attention was drawn almost immediately to the center of the room, which was bathed in a misty emerald glow from a high, round skylight. Beneath the skylight was a small table perhaps an arm's length across, flanked by two comfortable-looking chairs with green leather cushions. In the center of that table, a small, translucent amber sphere about four inches in diameter rested in the upraised claws of a golden Corwyn gryphon. Duncan whistled lightly under his breath and crossed to the table, never taking his eyes from the amber sphere. He started to reach out to touch it, then changed his mind and merely stood there admiring. Morgan smiled as he joined his cousin and leaned against the back of one chair. "How do you like it?" he asked. The question was strictly rhetorical, for Duncan was obviously enthralled with the thing. "It's magnificent," Duncan whispered, with the awe in his voice of any artisan looking at a particularly fine tool of his trade. "Where did you ever find such an enormous it is a shiral crystal, isn't it?" Morgan nodded. "The very same. The Hort of Orsal found it for me a few months ago at an outrageous price, I might add. Go ahead. Touch it if you like." As Duncan slipped into the nearer of the two chairs, the forgotten saddlebags slung across his arm bumped against the table. He looked down with a start, as though just remembering he had them, and his handsome face went tense, guarded. He lifted the bags to the table and started to speak, but Morgan shook his head. "Go on with the crystal," he urged, seeing Duncan's discomfiture. "I don't know what you've got in there that you think is so important, but whatever it is it can wait."

Duncan bit his lip and looked across at Morgan for a long moment, then nodded acquiescence and eased the bags to the floor. He took a deep breath and pressed his palms together for an instant, then exhaled and reached out to surround the crystal with his two hands. As he relaxed, the crystal began to glow. "Beautiful," Duncan breathed, the tension draining away as he moved his hands lower on the crystal to better expose it. "With a crystal this size, I ought to be able to form images without half trying." Concentrating anew, he gazed deeply into the crystal and watched the glow intensify. The sphere lost its opacity and became a transparent amber, clouded briefly as though breathed upon from within. Then a shape began to form in the mist, which gradually solidified and took on human aspects. It was a tall man with silvery hair, wearing an archbishop's robes and miter and wielding a heavy jeweled crozier. He was very angry. Loris/ Morgan thought to himself as he leaned forward to inspect the image. What the Devil is he up to now? He certainly has Duncan riled, whatever it is.... Duncan snatched away his hands as though the crystal had suddenly become hot to the touch, and a look of disgust contorted his features for an instant. As his hands left the sphere, the form vanished and the sphere again became translucent. Duncan nibbed his hands against his cassock as though wiping away something distasteful, then forced himself to relax, folded his hands neatly on the table. He looked at his hands as he spoke. "I suppose it's fairly obvious that this isn't just a social call," he murmured bitterly. "I couldn't even hide it from the shiral crystal." Morgan nodded understandingly. "I realized that when you got off your horse." He studied the gryphon signet on his right forefinger and rubbed it absently. "Do you want to tell me what has happened?" Duncan shrugged and sighed. "There isn't any easy way to say it, Alaric. I I've been suspended." "Suspended?" Morgan's jaw dropped in amazement. "What for?" Duncan forced a wry smile. "Can't you guess? Apparently Archbishop Loris convinced Corrigan that my part in the coronation battle was more than just that of Kelson's confessor. Which, unfortunately, is trufc. They may even suspect that I'm half-Deryni. They were going to call me before an ecclesiastical court, only a friend found out and warned me in time. It's what we always feared might happen." Morgan exhaled and lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I know how much the priesthood means to you. I I don't know what to say." Duncan smiled wealcly. "It's worse than you suspect, my friend. Frankly, if it were only the suspension, I don't think I'd be so worried. I find that the more I function as a Deryni, the less important my vows seem to become." He reached to the saddlebags beside his chair and withdrew a folded piece of parchment which he placed on the table between them. "This is a copy of a letter now enroute to your bishop, Ralf Tolliver. A friend of mine who's a clerk in Corrigan's chancery risked a lot to get it for me. The point of the letter is that Loris and Corrigan want Tolliver to excommunicate you unless you recant your powers and 'take up a life of repentance.' Those are Archbishop Corrigan's words, I believe." "Me, recant?" Morgan snorted, an incredulous half grin on his face. "They must be jesting." He started to slide the letter across the table and pick it up, but Duncan held his wrist. "I still haven't finished, Alaric," he said quietly, holding Morgan's gaze with his own. "Unless you do recant and comply with their orders, they'll not only excommunicate you they'll put all of Corwyn under Interdict." "Interdict!"

Duncan nodded and released Morgan's wrist. "Which means that the Church will effectively cease to function in Corwyn. There will be no Mass, no marriages, baptisms, burials, no last rites for the dying nothing. I'm not sure how your people will react." Morgan set his jaw firmly and picked up the letter. He unfolded it and began reading, and as he read his grey eyes went cold and steely: " To His Most Reverend Excellency Ralf Tofliver, Bishop of Coroth ... Reverend Brother, it has come to our attention ... Duke Alaric Morgan ... heinous crimes of magic and Sorcery contrary to the laws of God ... if said duke does not recant his Deryni powers . . . excommunicate . . . Corwyn under Interdict . . . hope that you will do this... sign of good faith ...' Damn!" Swearing explosively, Morgan half-crumpled the parchment in anger and threw it down on the table. "May nameless maledictions pursue them to the depths of Hell-slime! May lyfangs devour the last of their line, and thirteen devils forever haunt their sleep! Damn them, Duncan! What are they trying to do to rne?" He sat back in his chair and exhaled explosively, md Duncan grinned. "Do you feel better?" "No. You realize, of course, that Loris and Cor-rigan have me exactly where they want me. They know that my influence in Corwyn is based not on pro-Deryni feeling, but on my people being pro-Morgan. If the Curia of Gwynedd declares me anathema because I'm Deryni, they know full well that my people will go along rather than see Corwyn put under Interdict. I can't ask my people to give up their faith for me, Duncan." Duncan slumped back in his chair and gazed expectantly across at his cousin. "So, what are we going to do about it?" Morgan smoothed the crumpled letter and looked at it again, then pushed it back across the table as though he had seen enough of it. "Has Tolliver seen the original of tliis letter yet?" "I don't see how. Monsignor Gorony sailed aboard the Rhafallia two days ago. If my calculations are correct, he should be arriving sometime tomorrow." "More likely about three hours from now, when the tide shifts," Morgan retorted. "Gorony must have bribed my captains to pile on more sail. I feope they made him pay!" "Is there any chance of intercepting th'e letter?" Morgan grimaced and shook his head. "I don't dare, Duncan. If I do, I'm violating the immunity of the very Church I'm trying to protect in Corwyn. I have to let Gorony get through to Tolliver." "Suppose I get there first, then. If I were to show Tolliver our copy of the letter and explain your concern for the situation, he might agree to delay for as much as several weeks before he takes action. Besides, I don't think he's going to like being dictated to by Loris and Corrigan. It's no secret that they consider him a backwater priest, country simpleton of sorts. We could play on his resentment whatever it takes to keep the Interdict from falling. What do you think?" Morgan nodded. "It might work. Go make yourself presentable and tell Derry to saddle a fresh horse for you. While you're doing that, I'll write a second letter to Tolliver asking for his support. It's not going to be easy." He rose and crossed to his desk, already drawing out parchment and ink. "Somehow I must strike just the proper balance between ducal authority, penitent son of the Church, and long-time friend all without making the Deryni issue so strong he feels he can't in conscience go along." A quarter of an hour later, Morgan scrawled his signature at the bottom of the crucial letter and added his paraph, the highly personal flourish at the end of the stroke to guard against forgery. Then he applied sealing wax in a bright green blob below his name, pressed his gryphon seal into the hot wax. He could have done without the wax. With a little help, the Deryni signet was

easily capable of imprinting without benefit of wax. But he didn't think it would be much to the bishop's liking. The Most Reverend Ralf Tolliver had nothing against the Deryni personally, but there were bounds beyond which even Morgan dared not go. A flagrant, or even minor, act of magic at this stage could entirely undo whatever good the letter, so painstakingly drafted, might accomplish. Morgan was folding the letter to seal it again when Duncan returned, a heavy wool riding cloak flung over one arm. Derry was with him. "Finished?" Duncan asked, crossing to the desk and peering over Morgan's shoulder "Almost." He dripped sealing wax on the overlap to seal the letter closed and quickly stamped it with his seal. He looked up as he blew on the hot wax to cool it, then handed it to Duncan, "Do you have the other letter?" "Umm." Duncan snapped his fingers. "Derry, bring me that, would you?" He pointed to the letter on the central table and Derry brought it, watching as the priest tucked it into the cincture of his clean cassock. "Do you want an escort, Father?" Derry asked. "Not unless Alaric does. Personally, I think that th~e fewer people who know about this, the better off we are. Alaric, do you agree?" Morgan nodded. "Good luck, Cousin." Duncan gave a quick grin, a nod, then was out the door and on his way. Derry stared after him for a moment, then turned back to Morgan. The duke had not moved from where he sat, but he seemed to be in a world of his own. It was with some hesitancy that Derry ventured to interrupt that world. "M'lord?" "Hmm?" Morgan looked up startled, almost as though he had forgotten the young man was there though Derry was sure he hadn't. "May I ask a question, sir?" Morgan shook his head and grinned sheepishly. "Of course. You probably Have no idea of what's going on right now." Derry smiled. "It's not quite that bad, m'lord. Is there anything I can do to help?" Morgan studied the young lord, his chin resting on one hand, then nodded tentatively. "Perhaps there is," he said, sitting forward in his chair. "Derry, you've been with me for a long time now. Would you be willing to become involved in magic for me?" Derry broke into a broad grin. "You know I would, sirl" "Very well, then. Come over to the map with me." Morgan moved to the tapestried map covering the near wall, then ran his fingers along a broad finger of blue until he found what he was looking for. Derry watched and listened attentively as the duke began to speak. "Now, here's Coroth. Here's the estuary arising from the two rivers. Up the Western River which forms our northeastern border with Torenth is Fa-thane, the Torenthi trading town. It's also a staging area for all of Wencit's raiding expeditions along this segment of the border. "What I want you to do is to ride upriver toward Fathane, on the Torenthi side, then loop west along our northern border and back here. Your mission is to gather information, and there are three areas I'd like you to concentrate on: Wencit of Torenth's plans for the war in this area; anything you can find out about this Warin rascal in the north; and any leak of the threatened Interdict. Duncan told you about that, didn't he?" "Yes, sir." "Very well. You can choose your own disguise, but I think a fur trader or trapper would be good cover. I'd rather you weren't recognized as a fighting man." "I understand, sir."

"Good. Now, here's where the magic comes in." He reached along the side of his neck until he found a slender silvery chain, which he then proceeded to pull outside his emerald tunic. As the last of the chain emerged and Morgan slipped it off over his head, Derry could see that there was a silver medallion of some sort attached to the chain. He bent bis head slightly so Morgan could loop the long chain over his head, then looked down curiously at the medallion which now dangled at mid-chest level. It seemed to be a holy medal of some kind, though Derry couldn't identify either the figure depicted or the legend inscribed around the edge. Morgan turned the medallion to face forward, then leaned back against the bookcase beneath the tapestry map. "All right, now I'm going to ask you to help me establish a special kind of Deryni rapport. It's akin to Mind-Seeing, which you've seen me do a number of times, but not nearly as tiring because you remain in control. Just relax and try to let your mind go blank. It's not unpleasant, I assure you," he added, seeing Derry's momentary discomfiture. Derry nodded and swallowed. "Good. Now watch my finger and relax." As Morgan held up his right index finger, he began moving it slowly toward Derry's face. The young man's eyes tracked the finger almost until it touched the bridge of his nose, then fluttered shut. He exhaled softly and relaxed as Morgan's hand rested on his forehead. Morgan held that position for perhaps half a minute, nothing outwardly happening, then reached out and enclosed the medal in his other hand, closed his eyes. After another minute he released the medallion and looked up, dropped his hand from Derry's forehead. Derry's eyes popped open with a start. "You talked to me!" he whispered incredulously, his voice tinged with awe. "You " He looked down at the medallion in amazement. "I can really use this to communicate with you all the way from Fathane?" "Or farther, if necessary," Morgan agreed. "Just remember that it's a difficult operation. Being Deryni, I could call you any time it became necessary though it would take a great deal of energy. But you have to confine your calls to the times we agree upon. If I'm not trying to reach you, you haven't the strength to summon me yourself. That's why it's important that you keep track of the time. I'll expect your first contact about three hours after dark tomorrow night. You should be in Fathane by then," "Aye, m'lord. And all I have to do is use the spell you taught me, and that will put me into rapport?" His blue eyes were wide, but trusting. "Correct." Derry nodded and started to tuck the talisman into his tunic, then stopped and pulled it out to look at it again. "What kind of medal is this anyway, M'Lord? I don't recognize the inscription or the figure " "I was afraid you'd ask," Morgan grinned. "Ifs a very old Saint Camber medallion dating from just after the Restoration. It was left to me in my mother's will." "A Camber medal!" Derry breathed. "What if someone recognizes it?" "If you keep your clothes on, no one will even see the medal, much less recognize it, my irreverent friend!" Morgan retorted, slapping Derry's shoulder and chuckling. "No wenching for you on this trip, I'm afraid. This is strictly business." "You always have to take the fun out of everything, don't you?" Derry muttered, tucking the medallion inside his tunic with a grin as he turned to leave. Darkness was approaching as Duncan guided his tired mount back toward the city of Coroth, and the night chill of the mountain country was already beginning to settle in the glens. The meeting with Tolliver had been at least partially successful. The bishop had agreed to delay his answer to the couriers from Rhemuth until he could evaluate the situation, and had promised to keep Morgan advised of any further

action regarding his eventual decision. But the Deryni aspect of the case had bothered Tolliver, as Duncan had known it would. And the bishop had warned Duncan to dabble no more in magic if he valued his priesthood and, indeed, his immortal soul. Duncan pulled his cloak around himself more closely and urged his horse to a faster pace, remembering that Alaric would be impatient for word of the outcome. Also, he mused, there would be a state dinner awaiting him. And unlike his ducal cousin, Duncan loved ceremony. If he hurried, he should be able to make it in time for the main course. It was not yet dark. As he rounded the next bend, not really thinking about anything in particular, he was suddenly aware of a tall dark form standing in the road not ten yards ahead of him. It was difficult to make out any details in the failing light, but as Duncan drew rein to avoid riding the man down, he noted that the pedestrian was clad in the garb of a monk, a peaked cowl pulled over his head and a staff in his hand. Something was not as it should have been, however. Almost unconsciously the warrior in Duncan guided his right hand to the hilt of the sword strapped beneath his left knee. The figure turned his head toward Duncan he could not have been more than ten feet away and Duncan jerked his mount to a halt, his heart in his throat. For the face which gazed serenely up at him from beneath the grey cowl was one he had come to know quite well in the last months, though never in the flesh. He and Alaric had studied it a hundred times as they searched the musty volumes for information on an ancient Deryni saint. It was the face of Camber of Culdi. Before Duncan could speak, or even react beyond a mindless shock, the man nodded courteously and extended an empty right hand in a token of peace. "Hail, Duncan of Corwyn," the stranger murmured. CHAPTER FOUR And the Angel that spoke in me, said to me ... Zechariah 1:9 DUNCAN'S THROAT went dry and he had difficulty swallowing. For the man had called him by a name he had thought known to only three living men: himself, Alaric, and the young King Kelson. There was no way that this person could know that Duncan was half Deryni, that his mother and Alaric's had been twin sisters, of the high Deryni born. It was a secret Duncan had guarded zealously all his life. And yet the man before him had called him by his secret name. How could he know? "What do you mean?" he managed to whisper, his voice a quarter octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat "I'm a McLain, of the lords of Kierney and Cassan." "And you are also a Corwyn, of your sainted mother's right," the stranger contradicted gently. "There is no shame to being half Deryni, Duncan." Duncan shut his mouth and managed to regain most of his composure, then wet his lips nervously. "Who are you?" he asked, holding his ground, but unconsciously letting his hand drop from the sword hilt he had clutched until now. "What do you want?" The man chuckled amiably and shook his head. "No, of course you don't understand, do you?" he murmured almost to himself, still smiling easily. "You needn't be afraid. Your secret is sealed within me. But, come. Dismount and walk with me awhile. There is something I would have you know." Duncan hesitated for an instant, a trifle uncomfortable under the man's serene gaze, then complied. The man nodded gravely. "You may consider this a warning, Duncan not a threat from me, for it is not

that, but for your own good. In the weeks to come, your powers will be sorely tested. More and more you will be called upon to use your magic in the open, to either accept your birthright and take up the fight as is your duty, or else to forever renounce it. Do I make myself clear?" "You do not," Duncan whispered, his eyes narrowing. "To begin with, I am a priest. I am forbidden to practice the occult arts." "Are you?" the man asked quietly. "Of course I'm forbidden to practice magic." "No. I mean, are you a priest?" Duncan felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he had to avert his eyes. "According to the rite by which I was ordained, I am a priest forever, 'unto " " 'Unto the order of Melchizedek,'" the man quoted. "I know what the scripture says. But are you really a priest? What happened two days ago?" Duncan looked up defiantly. "I'm merely suspended. I've not been degraded from the priesthood, nor excommunicated." "And yet, you yourself said that the suspension didn't really worry you, that the more you use your powers, the less important your vows become." Duncan gasped, instinctively drawing closer to the man, and his horse tossed its head in alarm. "How do you know that?" The man smiled gently and reached his hand to the horse's bridle to keep it from stepping on his sandaled feet. "I know many things." "We were alone," Duncan murmured, almost to himself. "I would have staked my life on it. Who are you?" "The power of the Deryni is by no means evil, my son," the man said in a conversational tone. He dropped his hand and began walking slowly down the road. Duncan shook his head in dismay and moved his horse along with him, straining to hear what he was saying. "... necessarily good, either. The good or evil is in the soul and mind of him who uses the powers. Only an evil mind can corrupt the power for evil." He turned to glance at Duncan as they walked and continued. "I have observed your use of the power so far, Duncan, and I find it most judicious. You need have no qualms as to whether your motivation is righteous. I understand the struggle you have undergone to be able to use it at all." "But-" "No more," the man said, holding up his hand for silence. "I must leave you now. I ask only that you continue to examine your motives in that other matter I mentioned. It may well be that you are called in other ways than you had thought. Think you on it; and the Light go with you." With that, the man was gone; and Duncan stopped in confusion. Gonel Without a trace! He looked down at the ground beside him where the man had been walking, but there were no footprints. Even with the lowering darkness, he could see his own tracks extending back the way he had come, the horse's hoofmarks firmly imprinted in the damp clay of the road. But of the other's passage there was no trace. Had he only imagined it? No! It had been too real, too chillingly threatening to have been in his mind alone. Now he knew what Alaric must have felt like when he'd had his visions. That sense of unreality, yet the certainty that he had been touched by someone or something. Why, this had been as real as as that shining apparition that he and others of Deryni blood had seen at Kelson's coronation, supporting the crown of Gwynedd. Now that he thought about it, it could even have been the same being! And if so Duncan shuddered and pulled his cloak around Himself again, then mounted and

touched spurs to his beast. He wasn't going to find any more answers on this deserted road. And he had to tell Alaric what had happened. His cousin's visions had come at times of cusp, when grave crises were brewing. He hoped this wasn't a portent. It was three miles back to the courtyard of Castle Coroth. It would seem like thirty. At Castle Coroth, the night's festivities Had begun with the setting of the sun. As darkness descended, richly clad lords and their resplendent ladies had begun to fill the ducal hall with color and sound as they awaited the arrival of their duke. Lord Robert, true to his word, had managed to transform the usually gloomy government chamber into an oasis of light and cheer, a welcome respite from the damp and darkness of the moonless evening. Beaten bronze chandeliers suspended from the ceiling blazed with the light of a hundred tall candles. Light gleamed from the facets of fine crystal and silver goblets, reflected on the mellow wink of polished pewter and silver service on the dark tables. A dozen pages and squires in emerald green livery scurried around the long trencher tables putting out bread and decanters of mellow Fianna wine. And Lord Robert, stationed near the head of the table, kept a watchful eye out for his lord's appearance as he chatted with two beautiful ladies. Lute and recorder warbled as a festive undertone to the chatter of the guests. As the guests mingled, Morgan's trusted surgeon, Master Randolph, circulated casually among the assembled nobility and gentry, nodding greeting and pausing occasionally to chat with those he knew. His task tonight, as it usually was on such occasions, was to feel out the mood of his master's subjects and to later report items of interest. As he made his way across the room, he picked up snatches of conversation. "Well, I wouldn't give ye a copper fer a Bremagni mercenary," one portly lord was saving to another as his eyes followed a stately brunette across the room. They can nae be trusted!" "An' what about a Bremagni lady?" the other murmured, nudging his companion in the ribs and raising an eyebrow. "Do you think they can be trusted?" "Ah-" The two exchanged knowing nods and continued to inspect the lady in question, not noticing Master Randolph's slight smile as he moved on. "And that's what the king just doesn't seem to understand," said a brightfaced young knight who looked barely old enough to have won his spurs. "It's all so very simple. Kelson knows how Wencit will move once the thaws begin. Why doesn't he just " Yes, why doesn't he? Randolph thought with a wry smile. If s all so very simple. This young man has the answer to everything. "And not only that," a striking red-haired lady was saying to her companion, "it's rumored that he only stayed long enough to change, and then he was back on a horse and riding out for God knows where. I do hope he gets back in time for dinner. You've seen him, haven't you?" "Ummm," the blond woman sighed approvingly. "I certainly have. What a pity he's a priest." Master Randolph rolled his eyes in dismay as he continued past the women. Poor Father Duncan was always being sought after by the ladies of the court almost as much as the duke himself. It was positively disgraceful. It would be different if the priest encouraged them. But he didn't. If the good father was lucky, he wouldn't get back before dinner was over. Scanning the crowd casually, Randolph noticed three of Morgan's border lords in an earnest conversation over to his right. Morgan, he knew, would be vitally interested in what they had to say. But Randolph dared not go too close. The men knew him to be in Morgan's confidence and would surely change the subject if they thought they were being too candid for outside listeners.

He edged as close as he dared and pretended to listen to two older men discussing falcons. "Aye, ye dasn't hae th' jesses too tight, or ye'll " "... and so this Warin fellow rides right into my granary yard and says, 'Do ye like paying taxes to His Grace?' Well, I tells him that sure, nobody likes taxes, but by God, the duke's tenants gets their money's worth of protection and good government!" "Humph!" another growled. "Hurd de Blake was telling me just the other day how he'd had four acres of spring wheat burned out by the scoundrel. It's been a dry winter up north by de Blake's place, and the wheat burned like Hades. Warin ordered him to make a contribution to the cause, and de Blake told him to go to the Devil!" ", . . nah, I like th' smaller tyrrits mysel', so ye can get yer hands around th' jesses rightlike . . ." The third man scratched at his beard and shrugged as Randolph strained to hear. "Still, this Warin fellow has a point. The duke is half Deryni, an' makes no secret o' the fact. Suppose he's plannin' to join with Wencit in another Deryni coup, f put Corwyn under another Interregnum. I dinnae want my manors blasted with heathen Deryni magic when I deny their heretical teachings." "Ah, now, ye know our duke would never do a thing like that," the first lord objected. "Why only the other day .,." "My peregrine ..." Master Randolph nodded to himself and moved on at that, satisfied that the lords were no immediate threat; were, indeed, only talking about the things others were discussing tonight. Certainly, the people had every right to be curious about what their duke had planned, especially since he was getting ready to go off to war again, taking the flower of Corwyn's fighting men and leaving the others to more or less fend for themselves. This continued mention of Warin and Kis band was disturbing, though. In the past month, Randolph had heard far more about the rebel leader and his band than he cared to remember. And apparently the problem was getting worse rather than better. Hurd de Blake's lands, for example, were more than thirty miles inside the border, much deeper than Randolph had ever heard Warin to penetrate before. The situation was becoming more than just a border problem. Morgan would have to be briefed before court in the morning. Randolph glanced across the room to see slight movement behind the drapes from which Morgan would make his entrance the duke's signal that he was about ready to come in. Randolph nodded and saw the curtain move again as he began to make his way slowly back in that direction. Morgan let the heavy velvet drapes fall back into place and straightened, satisfied that Randolph had seen his signal and was on his way. Behind him, Gwydion was bickering with Lord Hamilton again, in a low but penetrating tone. Morgan glanced around. "You stepped on me!" the little troubadour was whispering furiously, pointing down at one elegantly pointed shoe which now bore a decided scuff mark on the side of the toe. His entire outfit was in shades of deep violet and rose, and the dust of Hamilton's misstep shone like a beacon on the rich suede of the left shoe. Gwydion's lute was slung across his back with a golden cord, and a sweeping hat with a white cockade was perched atop his thick black hair. The black eyes danced angrily in the swarthy face. "Sorry," Hamilton murmured, starting to bend down and brush off the offending dust rather than argue in Morgan's presence. "Don't touch me!" Gwydion yelped, dancing back a few steps and drawing his hands up against his chest in a show of horrified distaste. "You blundering fool, you'll only make it worse!" He bent down to dust his own sh'oe, and the long tippets on his flowing violet

sleeves dragged the floor so that he had to dust those too. Hamilton looked vindictive, and grinned malice as Gwydion discovered the new dust, then realized Morgan had seen the whole proceedings and cleared his throat apologetically. "Sorry, m'lord," he muttered. "It really wasn't intentional." Before Morgan could comment, the curtains parted briefly and Randolph slipped into the alcove. "Nothing urgent to report, Your Grace," he said quietly. "There's a lot of talk about this Warm character, but nothing that can't wait until morning." "Very well," Morgan nodded. "Gwydion, if you and Hamilton can stop fighting long enough, we'll go in now." "My lord!" Gwydion gasped, drawing himself up indignantly. "It was not I who started this sifly quarrel. This oaf " "Your Grace, am I required to submit to this ," Hamilton began. "AH right, both of you! I don't want to hear any more!" The lord chamberlain came to attention as the curtains moved beside him,, and the room became Hushed. Three slow raps of the long staff of office echoed hollowly through the quieting hall, and the chamberlain's voice rang out. "His Grace, Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan: Duke of Corwyn, Master of Coroth, Lord General of the Royal Armies, and Champion of the King!" As the musicians trilled a short fanfare, Morgan stepped through the parted curtains and paused in the doorway. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the assembled guests as all bowed respectfully. Then, as the musicians resumed their playing, Morgan acknowledged the tribute with a nod and began to move slowly toward his place at table, his entourage falling into place behind him. Morgan was all in black tonight. Duncan's unsettling news from Rhemuth had brought with it a note of solemnity which had put him totally out of the frame of mind necessary for following the dictates of a temperamental master of wardrobes. So he had discarded the brilliant green of Lord Rathold's choice and worn black instead, and the Devil with what anyone thought. Severely plain black silk tunic, sleek and close to body and wrists; over that, a sumptuous black velvet doublet trimmed in jet, high and close around his neck and with wide sleeves slashed to the elbow to show the silk of the tunic beneath; silk hosen disappearing into short black boots of softest leather. And against this setting, the few articles of jewelry that Morgan permitted himself in such a mood: his gryphon signet on the right hand, emerald inlay of the beast glowing out against its onyx background; on his left, Kelson's Champion ring with the golden lion of Gwynedd etched on a field of black and gleaming gold. And on his head, the ducal coronet of Corwyn, hammered gold in seven delicate points, crowning the golden head of the Deryni Lord of Corwyn. He appeared unarmed as he strolled toward his place at the head of the tables, for the ruler of Corwyn traditionally had no need to go armed among his dinner guests. But beneath Morgan's rich attire was the gleam of supple mail protecting vital organs, the slim stiletto in its worn wrist sheath. And the cloak of his Deryni power surrounding him like an invisible mantle wherever he went. Now he must play the gracious host and settle down to the bore of a state dinner, while he inwardly seethed with impatience and wondered what had happened to Duncan. It was well after dark when Duncan finally returned to Coroth. His horse had gone lame the last two miles, and he had been forced to go on foot the rest of the way, controlling the almost overpowering urge to force the animal to continue at a normal pace despite its pain. He had controlled that impulse. For whatever advantage the hour's difference in his return might make, it was doubtful that it would be worth ruining one of Alaric's best saddle horses. Besides, it was not in Duncan's soul to purposely torture any living thing. And so, when he and the animal finally limped into the courtyard, he leading,

the tired horse following slowly, it was to enter an almost deserted area. The gate guards had passed him without question, since they had been warned to expect his return, but there was no one in the courtyard to take his horse. At the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who would normally have been manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion sing. Duncan finally found someone to take the animal, then made his way across the courtyard to the entrance to the great hall. Dinner was over, he soon learned, and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already in progress. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved his reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. It was a slow, measured melody, bom of the higK-lands of Carthmoor to the west the land of Gwydion's youth. And it was filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk. Gwydion's clear tenor floated through tKe still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derver-guille, the lovers of legend who had died in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song. So how shall I sing to the sparkling morn? How to the children yet unborn? Can I survive with heart forlorn? My Lord Mdthurm is dead. As Duncan scanned the hall, he saw Morgan sitting at his place to the left of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan's left, Lord Robert was flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan's right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance if he were careful. Before he could do more than move in tKat direction, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall. "What happened?" he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and looking around to be certain they were not being overheard. "The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough," Duncan murmured, "He wasn't enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision." "Well, I suppose it's better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he's on our side?" Duncan shrugged. "You know Tolliver. He's squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things, but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There's something else, though." "Oh?" "I ah think we'd better not talk about it here," Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. "I had a visitor on the way back." "A v ," Morgan's eyes went wide. "You mean, like mine?" Duncan nodded soberly. "Can I meet you in the tower room?" "As soon as I can get away," Morgan agreed. As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully. In the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves. He was much more upset than he had realized, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had had a violent fit of

shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck. The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had collapsed at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, it hadn't worked. He couldn't force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment. The pacing was not helping either, he realized. As he stopped before the fireplace and held out one hand, he realized that he was still shaking in a delayed reaction to what had happened earlier. Why? Taking hold of himself sternly, he crossed to Alar-ic's desk and unstoppered a crystal decanter there, poured himself a small glass of the strong red wine Alaric kept for just such emergencies. He drained that glass and poured another, then took it over beside the fur-draped couch against the left-hand wall. Unbuttoning his cassock halfway to the waist, he loosened his collar and stretched his neck backwards to get the kinks out, then lay back on the couch, the glass of wine in his hand. As he lay there, sipping the wine and forcing himself to review the situation, he began to relax. By the time the gryphon door opened and Alaric entered, he was feeling much better almost unwilling to get up or talk at all. "Are you all right?" Morgan said, crossing to the couch and sitting down beside his cousin. "Now I think I may survive," Duncan replied dreamily. "A little while ago, I wouldn't have been so sure. This thing really disturbed me." Morgan nodded. "I know the feeling. Do you want to talk about it?" Duncan sighed heavily. "He was there. I was riding along, I rounded a bend in the road about three or four miles from here, and there he was, standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a grey monk's habit, holding a staff in his hand, and well, his face was almost identical to those portraits we've found in the old breviaries and history books." "Did he speak to you?" "Oh, yes," Duncan agreed heartily. "Just as clearly as you and I are talking right now. And not only that, he knows what I am. He called me by my mother's name Duncan of Corwyn. When I objected and said I was a McLain, he told me that I was also a Corwyn 'of my sainted mother's right,' I believe he put it." "Go on," Morgan said, getting up to pour Himself a glass of the red wine. "Ah ... next he said that the time was approaching when I would be sorely tested, and would be forced to either accept my powers and begin to use them out in the open, or else forget them. When I objected and told him that as a priest I was forbidden to, use those powers, he asked if I were really a priest. He knew about the suspension, and he knew what we'd discussed earlier this afternoon. Remember, when I said that the suspension didn't really matter that much, that the more I used my Deryni powers, £he less important my vows seemed to be? Alaric, I've never told that to anyone else, and I know you didn't. How could he have known that?" "He knew what we talked about this afternoon?" Morgan said, sitting down again in amazement. "Almost verbatim. And he didn't Truth-Read me, either. Alaric, what am I going to do?" "I don't know," Morgan said slowly. "I'm not sure what to think. He's never been that talkative with me." He rubbed his eyes and thought a minute. "Tell me, do you think he was human? I mean, do you think he was really there? Or just an apparition, a visual phenomenon?" "He was there in the flesh," Duncan stated promptly. "He put his hand on the bridle to keep from getting stepped on." He frowned. "And yet, there were no footprints where he walked. After he'd disappeared, there was still enough

light to see my tracks going back the way I'd come. But none of his." Duncan raised up on one elbow. "Now I really don't know, Alaric. Maybe he wasn't there at all. Maybe I imagined all of it." Morgan shook his head and stood abruptly. "No, you saw something. I wouldn't even presume to guess what at this point, but I think something was there." He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up. "Why don't we sleep on it, eh? You can stay here, if you like. You look as though you're very comfortable." "I couldn't move if I wanted to," Duncan grinned. "See you in the morning." He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and discarded his glass. He had seen someone on the road to Castle Culdi. He wondered again who it could have been. And why? CHAPTER FIVE Who is she that loo^eth forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an with banners? Song of Solomon 6:10 AS THE cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him. Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan thought to himself. Which was probably a good thing, since somebody had to do the blasted things. It didn't seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job. . . . Morgan sigh'ed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary official duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and to render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects. But he had been restless for the past few weeks. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture, He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again. The young king, for one, would be a particularly welcome sight. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises which were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy's mind right now. Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man's lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been upset over the judgement, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong. That's all right, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think

you've got troubles now, just wait until Loris and Com'gan lower the Interdict. You don't know what trouble is. It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after getting all the guests away, he had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the messengers had said when they delivered the archbishops' letter the night before. Duncan had returned hours later with a long face and a troubled mind, for the bishop had been almost secretive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messengers had scared Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing. As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there was a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the common folk, his swarthy face streaked with dust and perspiration, and he looked very serious as he strode across the polished floor to bow curtly by Morgan's chair. "Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" He glanced at Robert. "Alone?" Morgan leaned back and put his pen down, then gave Gwydion a long searching look. The foppish poppinjay that was the public Gwydion had been replaced by a thin-lipped, determined little man. And there was something in his manner, in his black eyes, that made Morgan realize Gwydion was deadly serious for a change. He glanced at Robert and motioned him to leave, but the chancellor frowned and did not move. "My lord, I must protest. Whatever it is, I'm certain it can wait. We have only a few more rolls to go, and after that " "Sorry, Robert." Morgan replied, looking back at Gwydion. "I have to be the judge of whether it can wait or not. You can come back as soon as we're finished." Robert said nothing, but he scowled vexedly as he stacked his papers and pushed back his chair. Gwydion watched until he had disappeared through the door and the door had closed, then strolled toward the window and eased himself down on the padded window seat. "I thank you, Your Grace. There are many lords who would not have taken the time to indulge the whims of a mere spinner of tales." "I sense you have more than tales to spin, Gwydion," Morgan said quietly. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" Gwydion unslung his lute and began tuning it, gazing out the window dreamily as he spoke. "I was out in the city this morning, my lord," he said, strumming his instrument and toying with the pegs. "I've been collecting songs that I thought might please Your Grace's ears. I fear, now that I've found them, though, that they won't please you at all. Would you like to hear one?" He turned and looked Morgan full in the eyes, his own gaze glittering with anticipation, and Morgan nodded slowly. "Very well. This song is one I thought you'd be especially interested in, my lord, since it's about Deryni. I can't vouch for the tune or the lyrics, since they're not my arrangement, but the thought is there." He strummed a few introductory bars, then launched into a spirited and lively melody reminiscent of a child's play tune. "Hey, hey, riddle me, do: Why are Deryni becoming so few? Hey, hey, riddle me right: Why should the gryphon be wary tonight? Deryni are fewer since many are dead, So, gryphon, beware, or you'll lose yer green head! Hey, hey, ye've riddled me well. Riddle again and see what I'll tell." As Gwydion finished the verse, Morgan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his eyes hooded, dark. He sat quietly for a moment, his grey eyes studying the singer, then spoke in a low tone. "Is there more of this?"

The troubadour shiugged. "There are other verses, Lord, other versions. But the poetry is inferior, and I fear they all display more or less the same vitriolic humor. Perhaps you would be interested in 'The Bal-kd of Duke Cirala.' " "Duke Cirala?" "Yes, m'lord. Apparently he's a villain in every sense of the word evil, blasphemous, heretical, a liar who deludes his subjects. Fortunately, the song does offer some hope for the poor oppressed people. I might also mention that the name Cirala is quite familiar if one only spells it backward: C I R A L A A L A R I C. At any rate, the poetry is a little better than the other one." Again he strummed an introductory chord, this time setting the mood for a slow, sedate, almost hymnlike piece. "Ofenses hath Cirala -made before the Lord Most High. The servants of the Lord must smite his gryphon from the sb>Facades of gold and radiance deceive the eyes of men, But Du^e Cirala's heresies are J^noum by Lord Warin. O men of Corwyn, lend your aid to mend Cirala's ways. Cirala's heresy must stop, or all of Corwyn pays. If naive men, in innocence, condone the Devil's deeds. They still are doomed. Tis on false faith that evil often feeds. And so the day of judgement comes. Cirala's time is near. The servants of the Lord must rise, and put aside their fear. God's Chosen is the noble Warin, powerful and urise. Rise, men beneath the gryphon's claws, and still CiraJa's lies!" "Humph!" Morgan snorted when the troubadour had finished. "Where the Devil did you ever dredge that one up, Gwydion?" "In a tavern, Lord," the troubadour replied with a dour grin. "And the first was taught me by a ragged street singer near Saint Matthew's Gate. Is my lord pleased with what I have brought him?" "Not pleased with the content, but I am pleased that you told me. How much of this is about, do you think?" Gwydion gently placed his lute on the cushioned seat beside him and leaned back against the side of the window, hands clasped behind his head. "It is difficult to say, Lord. I was out for only a few hours, but there are several versions of both songs, and probably others totally different that I did not hear. If my lord will heed some advice from a spinner of tales, you should combat this with other songs. Shall I attempt to compose something worthy?" "I'm not certain that would be wise just now," Morgan said. "What do you " There was a discreet knock at the door, and Morgan looked up in annoyance. "Come." Robert opened the door and stepped through, disapproval written all across his face. "Lord Rather de Corbie is here to see you, Your Grace." "Ah, send him in." Robert stepped aside, and a contingent of men in the sea green livery of the Hort of Orsal marched in in a double row. Behind them walked the redoubtable Rather de Corbie, Ambassador Extraordinaire of the Hort of Orsal. Morgan stood at his place and smiled as the double file split and lined up in front of him and Rather stopped and bowed. "Duke Alaric," the man boomed, in a voice that simply did not match his fivefoot stature. "I bring felicitations and greetings from His Hortic Majesty. He trusts you are well." "Indeed, I am, Rather," Morgan said, shaking the man's hand enthusiastically. "And how is the old sea lion?" Rather rumbled in laughter. "The Orsal's family has just been blessed with yet another heir, and the Orsal himself hopes that you will soon be able to come to see him." He glanced at Gwydion and Robert and then continued. "There are certain matters of navigation rights and defense he wishes to discuss, and he

hopes that you will bring your military advisors with you. Spring is upon us, you know." Morgan nodded knowingly. Between the two, of them, he and the Hort of Orsal controlled water passage from the Twin Rivers to the sea, a route of extreme tactical advantage should Wencit of Torenth decide to invade along the coast. And since Morgan would be away with the army in a few weeks, arrangements must be made with the Orsal to protect Corwyn's sea approaches in his absence. "When does he want me to come, Rather?" Morgan asked, knowing that the Orsal's request was fairly urgent, yet aware that he could not go until tomorrow at the earliest because of the impending contact with Derry tonight. "Today, with me?" Rather asked cagily, watching Morgan for reaction. Morgan shook his head. "How about in the morning?" he asked. He motioned Robert and Gwydion to leave them. "Rhafallia is in port. I can sail with the tide and be there by Terce. That would give us the rest of the morning and all afternoon until I have to return. What do you say?" Rather shrugged. "It's fine with me, Alaric. You know that. I only carry messages back and forth. Whether the Orsal will agree or not is something only the Orsal knows." "Good, then," Morgan said, slapping Rather on the shoulder in a comradely gesture. "How about something to eat before you and your men leave? My cousin Duncan is visiting, and I'd like you to meet him." Rather made a short bow. "I accept with pleasure. And you must promise to tell me what news you hear from the young king. The Orsal is still chagrined that he had to miss Kelson's coronation duel, you know." Later that afternoon when amenities with Rather de Corbie had been concluded and the feisty old warrior was on his way home, Morgan found himself once again the reluctant captive of Lord Robert. Robert had decreed that today must see the completion of Bronwyn's dowry arrangements, and so he and Morgan had cloistered themselves in the solarium with the documents in question. Duncan had wandered out to the armorer's pavilion an hour earlier to inquire about the progress of a new sword he was having made, and Gwydion was out combing the city for more songs of unrest. As Robert's voice droned on and on, Morgan tried to force himself to pay attention. He reminded himself for at least the fifteenth time this week that this was a necessary if tedious part of governing; and the realization did about as much good as the previous fourteen reminders had. He would rather have been doing just about anything at the moment. " 'Rendering of the account of Corwode manor,'" Robert read. " "They say that Corwode was wont to be in the hands of the king. And the Lord King Brion, father of the king who now is, gave the aforesaid manor to Lord Kenneth Morgan and his heirs. And it is held of the king by service of three men at arms in time of war.'" Just as Robert drew breath to begin the next paragraph, the solarium door opened and Duncan padded in breathing heavily. Bare-legged and clad only in a damp linen exercise tunic and soft boots, the priest had evidently been trying the balance of his new blade with the armorer. He flung a rough grey towel around his shoulders and wiped his face with a corner of it as he strode across the room, his left hand clutching a folded and sealed piece of parchment. "This just came in by courier," he said, grinning and tossing the parchment to the table. "I think it's from Bronwyn." He perched on the table edge and nodded greeting to Robert, but the chancellor laid his pen aside with a sigh and sat back with a very vexed expression. Morgan chose to ignore the reaction, and broke the seal in a shower of red wax shards. His eyes lit with pleasure as he scanned the first few lines, and he leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Your illustrious brother definitely has a way with women, Duncan," the duke

said. "Listen to this. It's so typical of Bronwyn." " 'My dearest brother Alaric, I scarce can believe it is happening at last, but in just a few short days I shall be the Lady Bronwyn McLain, Countess of Kierney, future Duchess of Cassan, and most important of all, wife to my beloved Kevin. It hardly seems possible, but the Jove we have always shared seems now to grow even stronger with each passing hour.' " He looked up at Duncan and raised an indulgent eyebrow, and Duncan shook his head and grinned. " 'This will probably be the last letter before I see you in Cu/di, but Dufce /ared is urging me to be brief. He and Lady Margaret have been showering us with gifts, and he says that today's is especially impressive. Kevin sends his Jove and wonders whether you were able to arrange for the troubadour Gwydion to perform at our wedding feast. Kevin was so impressed when he heard him sing at Valoret last winter, and I too am very eager to hear him. " 'Give my Jove to Duncan and Derry and Lord Robert, and tell them that / look forward to seeing them at the wedding. And hurry to share the happiest day of your loving sister, Bronwyn.' " Duncan wiped his sweating face again and smiled, then took the letter and scanned it again. "You know, I never really believed I'd see Kevin so domesticated. At thirtythree and still unmarried, I was beginning to think he should have been the priest instead of me." "Well, it certainly wasn't Bronwyn's fault," Morgan laughed. "I think she decided when she was about ten that Kevin was to be the only man in her life. Only a provision of our mother's will has kept them apart this long. The McLains may be hard-headed, but they can't compare to the stubbornness of a half Deryni wench who's determined to get what she wants." Duncan snorted and headed for the door. "I think I'll go and badger the armorer some more. Anything is easier than trying to argue with a man who thinks, his sister is perfect!" With a chuckle, Morgan leaned back in his chair and put his booted feet up on the leather stool, his spirits restored. "Robert," he said, smiling out the window at nothing in particular, "remind me to tell Gwydion he's leaving for Culdi in the morning, will you?" "Yes, m'lord." "And let's get back to those accounts, shall we? Really, Robert, you're getting insufferably lax these days." "I, Your Grace?" Robert murmured, looking up from the note he had made. "Yes, yes, let's get on with it. If we work hard, I think we can finish these blasted things by nightfall and I can ship them out with Gwydion in the moming. I can't remember when I've been more bored." Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, however, was far from bored. At that moment, she and her future mother-in-law, the Duchess Margaret, were selecting the gowns that Bronwyn would take to Culdi in the morning for the wedding festivities. The ornate dress that she would wear for the ceremony itself was carefully laid out on the bed ready to be packed, its flowing skirt and sleeves aglisten with tiny silver paillettes and rose-flashing balasses. Several other bright garments were also laid out neatly on the bed. And on the floor were two leather-bound trunks, one of which was nearly packed and ready to be closed. Two serving maids were busy adding the last touches to that chest before starting on the second, but Bronwyn kept finding last minute items to add that forced the maids to redo half the packing. It was an unusually sunny day for March. Though it had rained hard during the night, the morning had dawned in a burst of lemon-streaked glory. Now, at midafternoon, the ground was almost dry. Pale sunlight streamed into the chamber through open balcony doors. And near those doors, three ladies-in-waiting stitched industriously on Bronwyn's trousseau, their nimble fingers moving

quickly over the fine linens and silks. Two of them worked on the fine gauze veil their mistress would wear for her marriage, applying delicate lace to the edges with steady hands. The third embroidered Bronwyn's new McLain crest in gold on a pair of supple leather gloves. Behind the ladies, next to the fire, two young girls curled up on velvet cushions, the older of the two strumming and playing a crewth. As she caressed the strings and hummed an accompaniment; her younger companion kept time with a timbrel and sang the lower, contrapuntal portion of the song. A fat orange cat dozed peacefully at their feet, only a slightly twitching tail betraying the fact that he was alive. Now, brides are traditionally beautiful, especially daughters of nobility. And Bronwyn de Morgan was certainly no exception. But of all the ladies in the room that afternoon, even the bride to be, it would have been difficult to find a lady of gentler breeding or character than Lady Margaret McLain. Lady Margaret was Duke Jared's third duchess-lady of that twice-bereft lord who had thought that he could never love again after the death of his second wife Vera, the mother of Duncan. He had hardly known his first bride; the Duchess Elaine had lived but a day after the birth of Jared's first son, Kevin. But his marriage to the Lady Vera three years later had been a long and happy one twenty-six years of joy in an age when marriages of state were rarely more than affectionate matches of convenience, and almost never touched by romantic love. The marriage had brought more children: first Duncan, then a daughter who had died in infancy, and then young Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan, when their wardship descended to Jared on the death of his cousin Kenneth, the children's father. Then, four years ago, all that had ended. Lady Vera had contracted a strange wasting disease which drained her of vitality and left her helpless. Not even her Deryni powers (for she was full Deryni, the sister of Morgan's mother, though no one knew) could keep life from gradually ebbing away. And then there was the Lady Margaret a woman of no great physical beauty, a childless widow of forty who would never bear Jared another heir, but a quiet lady of gentle soul who could offer the one thing Jared sought above all else Lady Margaret McLain, who had taught Jared how to love again. So now that same lady fussed over Bronwyn's wedding arrangements as though Bronwyn were her own daughter, watching over the serving maids and supervising activities with a mother's sharp eye. Since Duncan had chosen not to wed, only Kevin and his wife would carry on the McLain line now. There would be no more McLain daughters born or married into the family until Bronwyn bore heirs. So the pre- parations for this marriage would have to last a long time. Margaret glanced aside at Bronwyn and smiled, then slipped over to a carved wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key from the jeweled chatelaine at her waist. As she began searching its shelves, Bronwyn took up a jeweled kirtle of rose watered-silk and held it in front of herself, walking thoughtfully to a large mirror standing in the comer of the room. Bronwyn de Morgan was a beautiful woman. Tall and slim, with rich golden hair flowing sleekly down her back, she was the embodiment of all the best qualities of her Deryni mother, the Lady Alyce. The wide eyes in the oval face were a pale blue, bordering on grey when her moods changed. The rose gown she held in front of her accentuated the pale, flawless complexion, the bloom of roses in cheek and lip. She studied her reflection carefully for a moment, weighing the effect the garment could be expected to produce, then nodded approvingly and laid it on the bed beside her wedding gown. "I like this one for the ball the night we arrive in Culdi, don't you, Lady Margaret?" she asked, smoothing the folds of the dress and looking across to see what Margaret was doing. "Kevin has seen it before, but that doesn't

matter." Margaret took a gold velvet-covered box from a shelf in the cabinet and brought it over to Bronwyn. It was about ten inches square and a hand-width deep, and she handed it to Bronwyn with a gentle smile. "Here is something else Kevin has seen before, my dear/' she said gently, watching for Bronwyn's reaction as the girl began to open it. "It's been in the McLain family for many years. I like to think it brings luck to the women who wear it." Bronwyn lifted the lid and gasped in wonder. A high tiara heavy with diamonds glittered brilliantly against a bed of black velvet, throwing a shower of flashing fire on Bronwyn's simple blue gown. "It's magnificent!" Bronwyn breathed, carefully setting the box on the bed and lifting out the tiara. "This is the McLain nuptial crown, isn't it?" Margaret nodded. "Why don't you try it on? I want to see how it will look with your veil. Martha, bring the veil, will you, please?" As Lady Martha and her companion brought the veil, Bronwyn moved to the mirror again and stared at the reflection of the tiara in her hands. Margaret and Martha draped the unfinished veil over Bronwyn's golden hair and fussed with it until it hung to suit them, and then Margaret took the tiara and placed it gently atop the veil. Lady Martha handed her a smaller mirror so she could see the back, and as Bronwyn turned to look she was startled to see two men standing in the doorway of the room. One was her future father-in-law, Duke Jared. The other was only vaguely familiar. "You look absolutely enchanting, my dear," Jared said, crossing toward her with a smile. "If I were Kevin, I'd have carried you off years ago, and damn your mother's will." Bronwyn lowered her eyes selfconsciously, then ran to Jared and flung her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. "Lord Jared, you are the most wonderful man in the whole world! Next to Kevin, of course." "Oh, of course," Jared replied, kissing her forehead and then holding her carefully away from him to avoid crushing the veil. "I must say, my dear, you make a lovely McLain. This tiara only graces the heads of the Eleven Kingdoms' comeliest ladies, you know." He joined Margaret and kissed her hand affectionately, and Margaret blushed. Jared had been holding court for most of the day. Like most land magnates of his stature, much of his time was not his own and must be spent attending to the official duties of his overlordship. He had come directly from a session of the ducal court this afternoon, and he still wore his ducal coronet and a brown velvet robe with Mclain tartan sweeping from the shoulder. An enameled silver brooch with the McLain lion dormant secured the plaid on the left, and a heavy silver chain of office with links the size of a man's hand was draped around his broad shoulders. His blue eyes were mild and relaxed in the lined face and he brushed aside a stray lock of greying hair as he gestured toward the other man who had remained standing in the doorway. "Rimmell, come in here. I want you to meet my future daughter-in-law." Rimmell bowed aad crossed toward his master. The most extraordinary single feature about Rimmell at first glance was his snow-white hair. Rimmel was not an old man he was but twenty-eight nor was he an albino. He had, in fact, had perfectly ordinary brown hair until the age of ten. Then, one warm summer night, it had suddenly and inexplicably turned white while he slept. His mother had always blamed it on the "Deryni witch" who was permitted to live on the outskirts of the village. And the village priest had vowed the boy was possessed, and had tried to exorcise the evil spirits. But whatever the reason, and despite all they did to try to change it, Rimmell's hair had

remained white. And it was only this, coupled with eyes of a startlingly brilliant blue, which rescued him from the anonymity of very ordinary features and a slightly stooped posture. He wore a grey tunic and high boots, a grey velvet cap with Jared's sleeping lion badge sewn to the front, and carried a scuffed grey leather equipment poach slung across his chest on a long leather strap. Several long rolls of parchment were tucked under his arm, and he clutcKed them nervously as he reached Jared's side and bowed again. "Your Grace," he murmured, removing his cap and keeping his eyes lowered. "My ladies." Jared glanced conspiratorily at his wife and smiled. "Bronwyn, this is my architect, Rimmell. He's drawn up a few sketches I'd like your opinion on." He gestured toward a table near the fire. "Rimmell, lefs spread them out over there." As Rimmell crossed to the table and began unrolling his parchments, Bronwyn took off tiara and veil and handed them to a serving maid, then walked curiously to the table. Jared and Rimmell were opening out a number of parchment documents which appeared to be plans of some sort, and Bronwyn's brow wrinkled in puzzlement as she leaned closer to inspect them. "Well, what do you think?" "What are they?" Jared grinned and straightened, folded his arms across his chest in anticipation. "They're plans for your new winter palace in Kierney, my dear. Construction has already begun. You and Kevin should be able to hold Christmas Court there next year!" "A winter palace?" Bronwyn gasped. "For us? Oh, Lord Jared, thank you!" "Consider it the only proper wedding present we could think of for the future duke and duchess of Cassan," Jared replied. He put an affectionate arm around his wife and smiled down at her. "Margaret and I wanted you to have somewhere for the grandchildren to play, something to remember us by when we're gone." "Youl" Bronwyn teased, hugging them both. "As if we needed an old palace to remember you by! Come. Show me the plans. I want to know about every last cubbyhole and stairway." Jared chuckled and, bent down beside her, began pointing out the features of the structure. And as he proceeded to regale his audience with tales of the palace's splendor, Rimmell withdrew a few paces and tried to study Bronwyn unobtrusively. He did not approve of the coming marriage of his master's heir with this Deryni woman. He had never approved, from the first time he set eyes on her seven months ago. In those seven months he had never spoken to Bronwyn. Indeed, he had only seen her a handful of times. But those were enough. They were enough to make him realize the gap between them she a lord's daughter and heiress of many lands; he a commoner, an architect, of no family at all. And they were enough for him to realize that he was falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with this exquisite Deryni woman. He told himself that lie disapproved of the coming match for other, more aesthetic reasons than the true ones. He told himself he disapproved because Bronwyn was half-Deryni, and therefore had no business marrying the young Earl Kevin, that she was not good enough for one so high. But whatever his objections, they always came back to the one inescapable, irreconcilable fact: he was in love with Bronwyn, Deryni or no. And he must have her or die. He had no quarrel with Kevin. Kevin was his future master, and Rimmell owed him the same allegiance as he did his father. But neither could he allow the earl to marry Bronwyn. Why, even the thought was beginning to make him hate the sound of the young lord's voice. His pondering was interrupted by a voice outside the balcony window the voice of the hated earl himself.

"Bron?" tKe voice called. "Bronwyn, come here. I want to show you something. At his call, Bronwyn hurried through the balcony doors and peered over the edge of the railing. From his spot near the table, Rimmell could just see the tips of pennants on lances above the balcony, and the shadowy shapes of riders on horseback through the narrow slits in the balcony railing. Lord Kevin had returned with his men. "Oh!" Bronwyn called out, her face bright with excitement. "Jared, Margaret, come and see what he's got! Oh, Kevin, she's the most beautiful palfrey I've ever seen!" "Come down and try her," Kevin shouted. "I bought her for you." "For me?" Bronwyn squealed, clapping her hands like an excited child. She glanced back at Jared and Margaret, then turned back to blow Kevin a kiss. "We're coming, Kevin," she called gathering her skirts around her as she flew across the room to join the McLains. "Don't go away!" As the three hurried from the room, Rimmell stared after Bronwyn hungrily for a moment, then moved slowly across to the balcony. There in the courtyard below, Kevin, in full skirmish attire, was seated on a great roan destrier with McLain tartan on the saddle. A page had taken his lance and helmet, and he had pushed back his camail so that his brown hair was rumpled and tousled. In his right hand he held the lead rein of a cream-colored palfrey, caparisoned with green velvet hangings and a white leather sidesaddle. As Bronwyn appeared at the head of the stairs, he tossed the lead to another page and moved his destrier to the steps, then reached up and lifted Bronwyn to the saddle in front of him. "There, wench! What do you think of that?" he laughed, crushing her against his mailed chest and kissing her heartily. "Is that or is that not a horse fit for a queen?" Bronwyn giggled and snuggled closer in the protective circle of his arm, and Kevin guided his mount back toward the palfrey. As Bronwyn reached out to go touch her new prize, Rimmell turned away in disgust and stalked back to the table. He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he must stop this wedding from taking place. Bronwyn was his. She must be his. If only he could find the right moment, he was sure he could convince her of . that, could make her love him. It did not occur to him that he had just stepped across the border from fantasy into madness. He rolled up his plans and scanned the room carefully, noting that all the ladies-in-waiting and servants had moved to the balcony to watch the spectacle in the courtyard below. Unless he was gravely mistaken, some of the women watched with more than a little jealousy. Could he, perhaps, play on that jealousy in some way? Perhaps one of the ladies could tell of a way to win a woman's love. At any rate, it bore closer watching. Since he truly meant to stop the marriage and take Bronwyn for himself, he must not miss a single possibility. Bronwyn must be his! CHAPTER SIX They also that seek after my life lay snares for me. Psalms 38:12 "ANOTHER ROUND!" Derry said thickly, slapping a silver coin down on the bar and gesturing magnanimously around him. "Drinks for all o' these fine gentlemen! When ol* John Ban'r gets drunk, all his friends get drunk tool" There was a roar of approval as a half-dozen rough-looking men in hunters' and sailors* garb lurched back to the bar around Derry, and the taverner snatched up a huge oak pitcher and began refilling the brown earthen mugs with fragrant

ale. "Thash a good boy, Johnny-lad!" one called, spitting amiably toward berry's feet as he held out his mug. "Fill 'er up!" another hollered. It was early yet. Darkness had just fallen. But already the Jack Dog Tavern in Fathane was almost filled to capacity, its patrons as loud and boisterous a mob as any in the Eleven Kingdoms. Over against one wall, a sailor in th'e worn jerkin of a top rigger was leading an old sea chanty to the accompaniment of a reed pipe, an out-of-tune lute, and two heavy trestle tables which had become the percussion section. Around the group, which was growing larger and noisier by the minute, more serious drinkers were having to raise their voices more and more to compete with the singing. But they knew better than to express displeasure at the noise and risk a brawl with the crusty sailors. Fathane, just at the mouth of the river isthmus, was predominantly a sailing town. Ships from Torenth and Corwyn across the river traded there regularly, and it was also a point of departure for hunters and trappers going farther up river to the great Veldur forests. The combination of interests made Fathane a very lively town. Derry took a long pull from his fresh mug and turned unsteadily toward the man on his right, apparently listening to his story. "An' so this man says, *Wa'd'ye mean, Lord Var-ne/s wine shipment? Thash mine, an' I paid fer it,* an' the Devil take Lord Varney!'" There was a roar of laughter at that, for the storyteller was evidently one of the most respected spinners of yarns in the village. But Derry had to fight hard to restrain a yawn. He had gained a great deal of information in the past three hours of drinking and storytelling, not the least of which was the fact that Torenthi royalist troops were gathering somewhere north of here near a place called Medras. The man who'd told him of it hadn't known just what their purpose was he was not the brightest of informants, and he'd been half-drunk by the time Derry got to him but he had said there were as many as five thousand men being mustered there. And evidently the information was supposed to be secret, for the man had suddenly clammed up when a Torenthi soldier poked his head in the door while making his rounds. Derry had pretended not to be interested, and had quickly changed the subject. But he had carefully filed the information away with the rest of the things he'd learned that afternoon. The mission thus far had been a highly fruitful one. A decided pattern was beginning to form. He looked into the depths of his ale mug, affecting that morose brooding attitude so often exhibited by men who are very drunk, and considered his next move. It was almost totally dark now, and he'd been drinking all afternoon. He wasn't drunk it took more than ale to do that but in spite of a capacity for spirits which Morgan assured him bordered on the prodigious, he was beginning to feel the effects. It was time he got back to the room he'd taken at the Crooked Dragon. He didn't want to miss his rendezr vous with Morgan. "An' so I says to the lass, 'Darlin', whafs yw price?', an' she says, 'More 'n you've got, sailor. You couldn't even keep me in petticoats!'" Derry took one last swig of the cold ale, then pushed himself back from the bar and straightened his leather jerkin with an exaggerated motion. As he placed another small coin on the bar, a man on his left lurched and nearly poured his ale down Derry's boot, but Derry managed to sidestep and steady the man without looking too sober. "Careful, mate," Derry slurred, helping the man back to the bar and guiding his mug to the surface. "Here, you finish mine. I gotta get shome shleep." He poured the remnants of his drink into the man's mug, purposely slopping half of it over the side, then patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Now, you drink up, m'friend," he said, pushing himself away from the bar again. "An' J wish you a pkashant g'night!" "Aw, yer not leavin' yet, are ye, oT buddy? Isfc early." "Come on, Johnny-lad. One more fer th' road?" "No," Derry shook his head, drawing himself to exaggerated attention. "I am too drunk. I ha' had enough, an' thash that." He attempted a precise pivot, stumbled against another man behind him, then managed to weave his way to the door without major mishap. He kept an eye out as he staggered through the door, hoping he wasn't going to be followed. But no one except his former drinking partners even seemed to notice he was gone, and they were fast forgetting he'd ever been there. As the noise of the raucous Jack Dog Tavern faded into the distance, Derry's hearing gradually began to return to normal. He tried not to collide with too many pedestrians as he lurched along the street at least none bigger than himself but when he reached a darkened alley he ducked into the shadows and peered back the way he had come. He had just about decided it was safe to drop his drunk routine when he heard a footstep in the alley behind him. "Who'shat?" he grunted, dropping into character again as he turned, and hoping it wasn't necessary. "Who'sh there?" "Hey, fella, are you all right?" said the man approaching him, his voice sounding strangely smooth and cultured in the filthy alley. Damn! thought Derry as he recognized the man. He'd seen the fellow in the tavern earlier this afternoon, drinking rather quietly with another man in the corner. Why had the man followed him? And where was his drinking partner? "I rememer you," Derry said, slurring his words and pointing at the man rather shakily as he tried to decide how he was going to handle this. "You were inna tavern, weren't ya? Whash matter? Can't pay yer bar bill?" "My friend noticed you were awfully shaky when you left," the man replied, stopping about four feet from Derry and studying him carefully. "We just wanted to make sure you were all right." "Yer frien'?" Derry questioned, trying to look around without seeming too coherent. "Whysh yer frien' so worried 'bout me?" he asked, craning His neck suspiciously as he saw the other man approaching from the street side. "Wha* ish thish anyway?" "Don't be alarmed, my friend," the first man said, moving closer to Derry and taking his arm. "We're not going to hurt you." "Now, lishen," Derry began, protesting more loudly as the man started to lead him further into the dark alley. "If it's money ya want, fergit it. I spent my lash copper back a' th* tavern." "We don't want your money," said the second man, grabbing Derry's other arm and helping his companion half carry Derry along the alley. Mumbling and whining under his breath, Derry continued to play his drunk role to the hilt, stumbling and falling with every other step to slow them down while he tried to form a plan. The men were obviously up to no good. But whether they suspected him for what he really was or merely wanted to roll him for his money was immaterial right now. What was important was that they believed him to be drunk. He could tell by the way they held his arms that they didn't think him any serious threat. Maybe there was still a way to salvage the operation after all. "This is about far enough," said the first man, when they had dragged him, stumbling and staggering, some thirty or forty feet into the alley. "Lyle?" The second one nodded, taking something small and shiny foom his tunic. "This won't take a minute, ray friend." It was too small to be a weapon. As Derry watched the man fiddling with it, he realized it was a vial of some murky orangish liquid. He peered curiously as the man tried to worry the stopper out with his fingers, again revising his estimation of the situation.

They were going to drag him whether to kill or to interrogate, he didn't know, but he didn't particularly care to find out. The first man was holding both his arms, but his grip was only firm enough to support him. Apparently they still believed him to be just a drunk. That would be their fatal mistake. "What ish that?" Derry murmured amiably as the man pulled out the stopper. "Ish a pretty pink." 'Tes, my friend," said the man, bringing the vial toward Derry's face. "This will just help to clear your head. Drink it down, now." It was the moment for action. In a sudden movement, Derry wrenched his arm away from the man behind him and dashed the liquid over his shoulder into the man's face. At the same time he dropped slightly and kicked the second man in the groin, then rolled with the force of the kick and came up on his feet, sword half-drawn. Before he could clear the scabbard, the first man was already leaping for his arm, wrenching the blade out of his grasp. And as he fought for control of the weapon, the second man launched himself into the fray and landed on his partner's back, thinking it was Derry in the dim light. The first man went limp and the sword fell from his hands; the second jumped back cursing, then lunged at Derry again. Now the odds were more to Derry's liking, though it still would not be easy. While Derry knew he was most decidedly not drunk, neither was he entirely sober. His reflexes were slowed down, and the man before him was obviously an expert with a dagger. Derry whipped his own dagger from his boot top and sparred with the man briefly, each feinting several times. Then they closed. After a frenzied scufHe, Derry finally managed to disarm the man and get him into a chokehold. But even as he eased the unconscious form to the ground he realized that he would have to kill the man. He didn't dare leave him in the alley this way, nor could he allow him to talk. The man would have to die. Crossing quickly to the first man, he felt for a pulse; but the body was already growing cold, a gaping wound in its side. That, at least, saved one killing. But the other ... He dragged the second man over beside the first and turned him face up, then went through his pockets quickly. He found another vial like the one they'd tried to drug him with, some papers He didn't have time to read just now, and some gold coins. Morgan would he interested in the vial, and possibly the papers, so he pocketed those. But the coins he replaced. He wasa't a thief. And whoever found the bodies in the alley later on would hopefully think the men had killed each" other over the money. At least, they would not be looking for a robber. A search of the other man's clothing turned up a similar set of papers and more money, but again Derry kept only the papers. The unconscious man moaned, starting to come to, and Derry was forced to silence him again. He found himself feeling rather squeamish as he picked up the other man's knife, for he had never killed a man in cold blood before. But his own life was in danger if he did not; there was nothing else to be done. He must look upon it as an execution. Taking a deep breath, Derry pulled the man's head back and placed the blade against the throat, then drew it across in one quick gesture. Then he dropped the knife by the other man's hand, picked up his sword, and fled down the alley. He had seen and heard men die before, and by his own hand. But then it had been in battle, in open warfare. He had never thought he would become a killer in the dark. He staggered out the other end of the alley and into tbe street, forced himself to resume his previous role of a drunk. He got about another block before he had to stop and retch over a gutter. Passers-by glanced at him in disgust or sympathy as they walked by, thinking he was just another drunk. But Derry knew better. And by the time he reached his room at the Crooked Dragon, he was a very sober young man.

Morgan leaned back against the tall headrest of the carved chair and closed his eyes. He was in his tower room, and he was alone. He could hear and feel the fire roaring in the fireplace to his right, and if he opened his eyes, he knew he would see the high vaulted ceiling, the seven bars of green glass set in the high walls which gave the place its name the Green Tower. In front of him was the shiral crystal, shining coldly on its gryphon stand in the center of the table. His hands rested lightly on the chair arms as he relaxed and cleared his mind. There was a knock at the door, but he did not move or open his eyes. "Yes?" "It's Duncan. May I come in?" Morgan sighed and looked at the ceiling, then sat forward so he could turn to glance at the door. "The door is open." He saw the latch turn, and then the door opened and Duncan slipped through. "Lock it," Morgan said, turning and leaning back in his chair once again. Duncan crossed to the small round table and sat in the chair opposite Morgan. His cousin's face was calm, serene, and Duncan realized he must already have been casting about for 0611/5 signal. "May I help, Alaric?" he asked quietly. "It's still a bit early, you know." "I know," Morgan sighed. "I don't want him to try early and get discouraged, though. This is all rather new to him." Duncan smiled. "And it isn't exactly routine to us, either, is it?" he said, leaning his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. "Are you sure you won't let me link with you and augment your power? It will save energy and another telling. And Derry will have to know about me sooner or later anyway." Morgan grinned half-heartedly. 'Tou win. How much longer?" "Whenever you're ready," Duncan replied. "Go ahead. I'll follow one step behind you." Morgan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then sat forward and cupped his hands around the shiral crystal. Another deep breath keyed the first response in the Thuryn trance, and he closed his eyes. There was a moment of silence, and then the shiral crystal began to glow faintly. At that, Duncan reached across and grasped Morgan's wrists firmly, his own arms resting easily on the table to either side of the crystal. He exhaled and joined Morgan in trance. The shiral crystal glowed brightly, then took on an indeterminate smoky amber hue. Neither man was aware of that fact. He's getting ready, came Morgan's clear thought. He's thinking about forming the link. I feel it, Duncan responded. Where is he? Do you fcnow? "I can't tell. A long way away. In a tiny room at the back of a rather dowdy village inn, Derry sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and doused one of the two candles in the room. He had read the papers he took from His two would-be assailants, and what he had learned had removed some of the taint of having killed in cold blood. For the men had been agents of Torenth, sent on special commission to ferret out information concerning Morgan's troop activities precisely what Derry was doing, but on the other side. They had only been on their way through Fathane, but that was enough. And they would have killed Derry, had their positions been reversed. So now they were dead and he was alive instead. It would take a while for the local authorities to identify them without papers. But once it was discovered that they were royalist agents, the hue and cry would be raised in tiny Fathane, and all strangers would be suspect. Derry didn't see how he could be linked with the deaths, but he must be on his guard. Stranger things had been known to happen, and he was totally alone in Fathane. No, not totally alone, he reminded himself, as he laid back on the bed and

pulled the medallion Morgan had given him out of his shirt. At least he would be able to tell Morgan what had happened, give him the information he had gathered thus far. He cupped the medallion in his hands and studied it for a moment, then closed his eyes and murmured the words of the spell Morgan had taught him. He felt a fleeting sense of dizziness as he slipped into that strange and almost frightening sleep. And then he was aware of a familiar presence surrounding him, backed by another known almost as well. The spell had worked! Congratulations, Derry, You're an apt pupil. Did you have any trouble reaching us? Morgan? That's right. And Duncan too. Father Duncan?/ Are you surprised? Surprised is hardly the word. We'll explain later. What have you learned? A great deal, Derry replied, smiling widely even though he knew his commander could not see the expression. One, Torenthi royalist troops are gathering somewhere north of here about five thousand strong, if rumor is correct. Where is "here"? Morgan interrupted. Sorry. I'm in Fathane an inn called the Crooked Dragon, for some reason I haven't been able to fathom yet. I know the place. Go on. Anyway, they're gathering near a place called Me-dras, about a half-day's ride north and inland from here. I thought I'd ride up that way in the morning. Good hunting has been reported in that direction, too. Which is also a good cover for you, Morgan agreed. How about our situation here in Corwyn? Ah ... a little rambling about Warm de Grey, but not much. Since the Torenthi have a Deryni ruler, they can hardly be expected to be enthusiastic about an anti-Deryni religious fanatic. He's apparently made a few raids across the border here, but didn't have much success. I'll keep my ears open as I head back west. Do that, Morgan replied. Anything else? You've done a fine job, but I don't want to tax your strength any more than necessary. Yes/ came Derry's emphatic reply. I had to kill a man in cold blood tonight, m'lord. He and his partner were Torenthi agents, and they were trying to drug me with something. Do you know what it was? No, but I have it here. I was going to bring it back for you. Get it, Morgan ordered. You can open your eyes without breaking rapport. Describe it to me. Derry opened his eyes cautiously, then reached across and picked up the vial. He looked at it carefully, then closed his eyes once more. It's a small, cloudy crystal vial with a brownish stopper. The fluid inside seems to be orangish and kind of thickish-looking. All right. Open it carefully and smell it. Don't spill any of it on you. Right. Derry sat up and opened the vial, then took a cautious sniff. Again, Morgan commanded. Derry obeyed. Do you recognize it, Duncan? I'm not sure. It could be be"las. The R'Kassans use the drug as a truth potion. But it will only work on humans, and then only when they're very drunk. Derry, were you drunk? Morgan asked. They thought I was, Derry replied with a smile. Would it have hurt me? That depends on whether you're telling the truth about being sober. How do you

know the men were Torenthi agents, by the way? I took their papers. Garish de Brey and Edmund Lyle, late of His Majesty's court at Beldour. They were on their way to spy on you. How inhospitable of them, Morgan retorted. Anything else before we break rapport? No, sir. All right. First of all, I want you to destroy those papers and the belas. Either could be your death warrant if you're caught. I must go to the Hort of Oreal tomorrow, but I'll listen for your call tomorrow night at this time in case you need to get in touch with me. Don't try unless your information is vital, though, because we can't afford the energy drain on a regular basis. And see what you can find out about the Interdict. Other than that, just be careful and get back in the next two days. Have you got all that? Yes, sir. Contact tomorrow night if it's important, and return in two days. Good luck, then. Thank you, sir. Derry shuddered slightly as the contact was broken, then opened his eyes and looked around the room. He felt tired, drained of energy, but it was a good tired; and the experience had been much better than he'd expected. He'd apparently been apprehensive over nothing. One of these days he would learn to believe what Morgan told him about magic the first time. He looked wistfully at tKe open vial in his hand, then emptied it into the chamberpot under his bed. Then he ground the vial to powder under his heel and put flame to the papers. Ashes followed the drug into the chamberpot, and then he urinated over the entire mess for good measure. There. He defied even a Deryni to make sense of that mess if anyone even thought to look. That settled, he unlaced his leather jerkin and pulled off his boots. Pulling back the shabby blanket on the bed, he flopped down on the mattress and covered himself, moving his dagger under his pillow where he could reach it in a hurry. Then, as an afterthought, he tucked Morgan's medallion back inside his shirt. Wouldn't want anyone to walk in and see that, he thought to himself as he dropped off to sleep. CHAPTER SEVEN Let destruction come upon him unawares , . . Psalms 35:8 IT WAS JUST past sunup when Morgan, Duncan, and the ducal entourage arrived at the quay to board Rhafallia. The air was chill, damp, heavy with the bitter salt tang of the sea. Since the visit to the Hort of Orsal was to be an official one, Morgan was decked out in quasi-formal attire knee-length black leather surcoat with the Corwyn gryphon blazoned on the chest in green suede, this over light mail encasing his body from neck to knee. Hard leather boots took up where the mail left off, the heels adorned with silver ceremonial spurs though Morgan would not be going near a horse. A rich green woolen cloak of a nubby texture hung from his broad shoulders, secured rigHt of center with a carved silver clasp. And since this was a state visit and not a military maneuver, the ducal coronet of Corwyn crowned his golden head. His broadsword swung at his side in a well-worn leather scabbard. Duncan, too, had made dress concessions for his visit to the Hort of Orsal, finally discarding all pretense of clerical garb in favor of a high-collared black doublet and cloak over mail. He had debated whether he should don the plaid of his McLain ancestors he knew that Alaric kept one on hand for just such events but he had decided that such a move might be premature. Few people

knew of his suspension as yet. And until they did learn of it, there was no need to advertise the fact. As long as he wore black, he would arouse no attention. People would see what they expected to see. But meanwhile, he realized wryly, he would have little difficulty fitting into society as a layman again. Lord Duncan Howard McLain was first and foremost a nobleman's son, well-schooled in the fighting traditions of the aristocracy. And though the new blade hanging at his waist might be virgin just now, there was little doubt in Duncan's mind that it would serve him well the first time the need arose. The dense coastal fog was lifting as Morgan and Duncan approached the Rhafallia, and they could see her tall mast looming suddenly in the greyness. The brilliantly decorated and stitched mainsail was furled loosely along the single wide yardarm, and Morgan's black-green-black maritime banner hung limply from a short standard at the bow. As they watched, a sailor ran up Kelson's colors on the mast, a flash of crimson and gold against the grey morning sky. Rhafallia was not Morgan's largest ship, though at a mere fifty tons she was one of the fastest. Double-ended and clinker-built like most ships that plied the Southern Sea in trade, she carried a crew of thirty men and four officers, with room for perhaps half that many men-at-arms or passengers, in addition to cargo. When the wind blew and blew from the right direction, she could make .four to six knots with little difficulty; and recent rigging innovations copied from the Bremagni merchant fleets to the south now made it possible to tack as close as forty degrees to the wind with a new forward sail called a jib. If the wind failed, or did nor blow from the proper direction, there were always the oars. And even without sail, the narrow and high-riding Rhafallia could easily make the crossing to the Hort of Orsal's island port and back in less than a day. Morgan glanced up at the mast again as he and Duncan approached the gangplank and noticed that sailors were already swarming the rigging in preparation for departure. A lookout was supervising from a vantage point in the fighting castle at the top of the mast, and Morgan could just see the bright knit caps of the deck crew scurrying in the slightly lower level of the rowing gallery. He hoped that they would not have to rely too heavily on oars this morning, though. He wanted to be back on land well before noon. As he considered the dismal possibility of a protracted crossing, a tall man in well-worn brown leather breeches and jerkin came striding up, his neck and shoulders muffled by a rough wool cloak of faded crimson. He wore the peaked leather cap of a ship's master, with the green cockade of Morgan's sea service jutting gaily from the brim. He grinned broadly as he saw Morgan, and a bushy rust-colored mustache and beard bristled when he talked. "Good morning, m'lord!" he boomed, rubbing his hands together briskly and glancing around as though he were thoroughly enjoying the cold, the fog, and the early hour. "Isn't it a beautiful morning?"Morgan raised a droll eyebrow. "It is if you like to sail blind, Henry. Will the wind pick up by the time the tide shifts, or are we going to have to row?" "Oh, there'll be wind," the captain assured Kirn. "It's going to be a beautiful day for sailing. Only one tack out of the harbor. How many are you bringing aboard, by the way?" "There'll be nine in all," Morgan replied, glancing around distractedly. "Ah, this is my cousin, Monsig-nor Duncan McLain. Duncan, Captain Henry Kirby, Master of the Rhafallia." Kirby touched the brim of his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Monsignor." He turned back to Morgan. "Are you ready to come aboard then, m'lord?" "Might as well. How long before the tide?" "Oh, a quarter hour or so. We can start casting off and getting sail set as

soon as you're aboard." "Very well." Morgan turned and gestured to the knot of men standing farther back on the quay, then followed Duncan and Kirby aboard. Behind him, Lord Hamilton and his troupe came trudging down the quay seven strong. Hamilton looked much more confident now that he was back in fighting harness. He was a warrior, not a courtier. And his close association with Gwydion and other more cultured personages for the past few days had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. Certainly none had been happier than he to see the fiery little troubadour packed off for Culdi this morning. It had started Hamilton's day most propitiously, and he was now in his element, presiding with singular aplomb as he herded his contingent aboard the ship. Master Randolph was the first of the ducal party to go aboard, his handsome face alight with pleasure at the thought of the adventure he hoped awaited. As a physician, he was seldom included in court intrigue beyond that of the sort he had handled at the state banquet. And the fact that Morgan had invited him along on this trip was a constant source of wonder and delight. At his side was young Richard FitzWilliam, the royal squire Duncan had brought with him from Rhe-muth. Richard was enthralled with the prospect of seeing the Hort of Orsal's legendary court in person. Further, he idolized Morgan, had trained under his supervision at the court at Rhemuth. Fiercely loyal to the duke, he had risked harsh words and physical danger more than once to warn his mentor of impending danger. In addition, there were four of Morgan's staff officers from the castle garrison, serving the dual purpose of honor guard and military advisors for the strategy sessions which were the object of the visit. It would be the job of these men, under the leadership of Lord Hamilton who brought up the rear, to command the local defenses while Morgan was away leading the royal armies in the north. As such, they were a vital link in the defense of Corwyn. When the last man was aboard, two crewmen in faded blue breeches and linen shirts drew in the gangplank and secured the rail on the side. Even now, a breeze was rising, the mist beginning to clear away in thin strips. Kirby began shouting orders, and lines were cast off, sails unfurled. As RhafaDia drifted away from the dock, a dozen rowers broke out their oars and began guiding her toward a patch of wind perhaps fifty yards from the quay. She cleared the last ships anchored in the vicinity of the quay and entered the wind, and her sails began to fill. The breeze stiffened as Rhafallia cleared the harbor mouth, and she began to pick up speed. After a few hundred yards, she came about smartly and set a course for the Orsal's island capital. If the wind held, she would arrive at the other side in less than four hours, with a steady cross wind all the way. As soon as the mechanics of getting under way were finished, Captain Kirby joined Morgan, Duncan, and Randolph on the afterdeck. Though Rhafallia was technically a merchant ship, she carried raised fighting platforms fore and aft. The helmsman steered the ship from the rear of the aft platform with a broad starboard steering oar, but the rest of the platform was ordinarily captain's country, used as a lounge and observation deck. Sailors had brought folding camp stools of finely tooled Forcinn leather up the access ladder, and the four made themselves comfortable. The sun was shining strongly now, and as they looked back toward Coroth, they could see the fog still shrouding the high cliffs of the coast, yet already beginning to melt away in the spring sunlight. Hamilton, the four lieutenants, and young Richard were lounging on the main deck about amidships, and those crewmen not engaged in the actual sailing of the ship were relaxing in the narrow, indented rowing galleries which ran the length of the ship on either side, A lookout stood watch on the forward fighting platform, and another in the castle atop the mast The huge expanse of mainsail and wide jib obscured a large portion of the sky, the painted gryphon on the main fiercely surveying

the entire scene. Kirby sighed and leaned back against the railing on the aft platform as he inspected his ship. "Ah, 'tis a beautiful day, just as I told you, m'lord. You really have to get out on the sea and taste the salt air to appreciate life. Can I interest you in a bit of wine to take the chill off your bones, perhaps?" "Only if you have Fianna wine," Morgan replied, knowing that the vintage he requested was the most expensive, and also knowing that Kirby drank nothing else. Kirby gave a wry grin and gestured expansively. "For you, m'lord, nothing but the best," He glanced over his right shoulder and into the starboard rowing gallery where a boy of seven or eight was whittling. "Dickon, come here a minute, lad." The boy looked up attentively at the sound of his name, then put away his knife and scampered to the foot of the ladder. The ship rolled slightly in the brisk wind, but the boy held onto the ladder steadily. There was a look of pure hero worship in his eyes as he looked up at Kirby. "Sir?" "Bring up some cups and a new flask of that Fianna wine, will you, son? One of the hands can help you lift it down." no "My squire can give him a hand," Morgan said, moving to the rail beside the captain. "Richard, would you help this lad, please? Captain Kirby has graciously consented to treat us from his private stock of Fianna wine." Richard looked up inquiringly from his post with the castle lieutenants and Lord Hamilton, then grinned and bowed acknowledgement. As Dickon turned on his heel and clambered down another ladder and into the hold, Richard glanced after him rather incredulously. He seemed somewhat taken aback at the boy's agility, for Richard himself did not profess to be a sailor, but he followed obediently, if a bit more gingerly. Kirby watched the two disappear below decks and smiled. "My son," he stated proudly. There was nothing Morgan could add to that. Toward the bow, one of the crew had watched the preceding exchange with interest. His name was Andrew, auxiliary helmsman aboard the Rhafallia. And now he turned back to glower over the rail, squinting intently into the mist far ahead which shrouded the Hortic coast. He would never reach those foam-drenched shores, he knew. Nor would he ever see his native Fianna again that same Fianna whence came the wine which had just been the topic of discussion on the afterdeck. But he was resigned to that. It was small enough price to pay for the deed he was about to do. He had been ready for a long time. He stood without moving for several minutes, then reached casually into his bleached homespun shirt and removed a small, crumpled scrap of cloth. Glancing around to be sure he was not being observed, he unfolded the cloth and cupped it in his hand, mouthing the syllables as he reread the words for the fifth or sixth time. " The Gryphon sails with the tide in the morning. He must not reach his destination. Death to all Deryni/'" Below was an "R", and the sketchy emblem of a falcon. Andrew glanced over his shoulder at th'e afterdeck, then turned back to face the sea. The message had arrived last night as the sun was sinking behind the misty mountains. As they had planned so long ago, the time at last had come when Morgan would sail again aboard his flagship KJiafallia and meet his destiny. It would not be a pleasant death not that for the Lord Alaric. But death it would be, and soon. He pressed his right hand against his chest and felt the reassuring pressure

of the vial on the cord around his neck. He would not shrink from his duty. THough his own death was certain, he had sworn the oath of the Sons -of Heaven and he would keep it. Besides, Warin himself had promised that the end would not be painful. And Andrew would be richly rewarded in the Hereafter for killing the hated Deryni duke. What matter if, in killing Morgan, he must take his own life? There could be no escape from the ship, even if he succeeded. And if he failed well, he had heard what the Deryni could do to a man: how they could twist his mind, force him to open his soul to the powers of evil, even betray the Cause. No, far better to drink the faithful poison and then strike down the Deryni. What price life if a man's soul be damned? With a decisive gesture, Andrew crumpled the scrap of cloth in his hand and let it fall to the water below. He watched until it was lost from sight, then reached inside his shirt again and withdrew the tiny poison vial. The elixir was very potent, Warin had told him. A few drops on the blade of his dagger, a small scratch on unprotected hands or face, and all the magic and mail in the world would not save the traitor Morgan. He worried the stopper out of the vial, glancing around surreptitiously to be sure no one was watching, then let a few drops trickle down the blade stuck through his leather belt. There. Let the Deryni defeat that, he thought to himself. For, as I live and breathe, his blood will spill today. And with it spills his life/ He recorked the vial and hid it in his hand, then turned and strolled casually toward the aft fighting platform to relieve at the helm. As he climbed the ladder and slipped past Morgan and the others to take the tiller, he tried to avoid looking at Morgan, as though a mere glance from the sorcerer might fathom his intent and foil the coming deed. His move was hardly noticed, for at that moment Richard and the cabin boy returned with worn wooden cups and a flask of wine. The flask, Andrew noted bitterly, still bore the Fianna seal of quality. "That's a good lad," Kirby smiled, taking the flask and pouring all around after he broke the seal. "M'lord, you invariably have good taste in wine." "I only follow your lead, Henry," Morgan smiled. He took a long draught. "After all, if I had no captains like you to import it, I'd never know such heaven on earth existed. An excellent year. But then, they all are." He sighed and stretched his legs in front of him, and the sun gleamed on his mail and his golden hair. He took the gold coronet from his head and laid it casually on the deck beside his stool. Andrew took advantage of the activity to work the stopper out of the vial again with his thumb, then lifted it to his lips under the pretext of covering a yawn. The yawn quickly assumed the appearance of a cough as the liquid burned down his throat, and Andrew was hard pressed to cover his extreme discomfort. Kirby looked at him strangely, then returned his attention to his conversation. Andrew swallowed again with difficulty, but managed at last to regain his composure. Hell's demons/ Andrew thought as he wiped his streaming eyes, Warin hadn't warned him it wduld taste like that! He had almost given the whole plan away. He would have to act quickly now. Straightening, he studied the configuration of men on the platform. Morgan was sitting on a stool about right feet away, his back toward the helm. Kirby stood to his left and a few feet farther away, facing slightly sideways. The priest, Master Randolph, and the squire Richard were grouped to Morgan's right, also seated, and all were much more interested in the slowly emerging land to the east than in the movements of the ship's helmsman. Andrew's lip curled in a sardonic smile as his hand crept to the hilt of his long dagger, and he carefully chose his target the unprotected back of

Morgan's head. Then, abandoning the tiller, he drew his knife and leaped toward his intended victim. The outcome was not as anyone had planned. As Andrew leaped, young Richard FitzWilliam turned and caught the movement. In that fatal instant before Andrew could reach his target, Richard simultaneously shouted and launched himself between the two, throwing Morgan from his seat and sending leather stools flying. The ship lurched as it came around into the wind, throwing Andrew off balance and preventing him from stopping in time. Even as Duncan and Kirby were leaping to disarm and subdue him, Andrew crashed into Richard and Morgan, his momentum carrying all three to the deck in a heap. Morgan ended up on the bottom of that heap, with Richard in his arms and a terrified Andrew on top of that. He had failed! Duncan and Kirby grabbed Andrew by the arms and wrenched him away as Hamilton and the four lieutenants swarmed up the access ladder to aid in the capture. Once Kirby saw that the man was in custody, he scrambled to the tiller and steered the ship back on course, shouting urgently for another seaman to come and take the helm. Randolph, who had pulled the boy Dickon to safety at the outset of the attack, watched half in a daze as Morgan struggled to a sitting position, fighting for wind and incredulously shifting Richard in His lap. "Richard?" Morgan gasped, shaking the young man's shoulder urgently. The youth was a dead weight in Morgan's arms, and the duke's eyes went wide as he saw the dagger protruding from deep in Richard's side. "Randolph, come here! He's hurt!" Randolph was instantly at his side, kneeling to inspect the wound, and Richard moaned and opened his eyes with great effort. His face had an ashen, cyanic tinge to it, and he grimaced with pain as the physician touched the dagger. Duncan made certain his prisoner was secure, then hurriedly joined Randolph at the wounded man's side. "I I stopped him, m'lord," Richard gasped weakly, looking up at Morgan with trusting eyes. "He was going to kill ye. "You did well," Morgan murmured, smoothing the youth's dark hair off his forehead and reading the agony etched there. "How is he, Ran?" Randolph shook his head bitterly. "I tHink he's poisoned, m'lord. Even if the wound were not so critical, I " He bowed his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, m'lord." "Your Grace," Richard whispered, "may I ask a boon?" "Whatever is in my power, Richard," Morgan said gently. "Would would ye tell my father I fell in your service, as your liege man? He " Richard had to cough, and the movement sent anotKer wave of pain wracking through his body. "He hoped I would be a knight some day," he finished weakly. Morgan nodded, biting his tip and trying to keep his vision from bluring. "Let me say the words, then, m'lord," Richard whispered, taking Morgan's hand and gripping it fiercely. "I, Richard FitzWilliam, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship." His eyes opened wider and his voice steadied as he continued. "And faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folk," he grimaced in pain, his eyes squeezing shut, "so help me, God...." His voice trailed off with the end of the oath and his grip relaxed. The last breath" died slowly. With a convulsive shudder Morgan held the dead youth to his chest for a moment, his eyes closed in sorrow. Beside him, he could hear Duncan murmuring the words of absolution. He looked up at Kirby*s drawn face, at his lieutenants holding the prisoner, at the prisoner himself, and his eyes went steely grey. Not taking his eyes from the man who stood there glaring down so defiantly, he gently lowered Richard to the deck and got to his feet. There was an overturned stool between him and the prisoner, and he forced himself to right it and set it carefully

in place before moving closer to the man. His hands clenched and unclenched several times as he stood looking at the man, and he had to restrain the urge to smash the sneering face with" his fist. "Why?" he said in a low voice, not trusting himself to say any more at this point. "Because you're Deryni, and all Deryni must diel" the man spat, his eyes flashing with a fanatic fire. "The Devil take you, you'll not escape next time! And there will be a next time, I guarantee it!" Morgan stared at the man for a long moment, not saying a word, and the man at last swallowed and dropped his gaze. "Is that all you have to say?" Morgan said quietly, his eyes dark and dangerous. The man looked up at him again, and a strange expression came across his face. "You can't hurt me, Morgan," he said in a steady voice. "I tried to kill you and I'm glad. I'd do it again if I had the chance." "What chance did Richard have?" Morgan said icily, watching as the man's eyes flicked nervously to the body lying behind him. "He consorted wjth a Deryni," the man snapped. "He deserved what he got." "The Devil take you, he deserved no such thing!" Morgan cursed, grabbing the front of the man's shirt and jerking his head to within inches of his own. "Who sent you to do this?" The man grimaced with pain and shook his head, then smiled weakly. "It's no good, Morgan. I'm not telling you anything. I know I'm a dead man." "You're not dead yet!" Morgan murmured through clenched teeth, giving the man's collar a slight twist. "Now who sent you? Who's behind this?" As Morgan turned his Deryni gaze on the man, intending to Truth-Read, Andrew's blue eyes widened and a look of stark terror replaced the belligerence. "Not my soul, you Deryni bastard!" the man croaked, wrenching his gaze from Morgan's and closing his eyes tightly. "Leave me alone!" A shudder wracked through his body as he fought Morgan's power and he moaned in agony as he struggled to escape. Then he relaxed and slumped in the arms of his captors, head lolling loosely. Morgan made one last effort to probe his mind as he slipped away, but it was no use. The man was dead. Releasing the shirt, Morgan motioned for Randolph. "Well," Morgan said, turning away in disgust, "did I kill him, or did he scare himself to death, or what?" Randolph inspected the body the lieutenants lowered to the deck, then pried open the man's left hand. He took the vial and sniffed it, then stood up and held it out to Morgan. "Poison, m'lord. Probably the same that was on the knife. He must have realized there was no hope of escape even if he'd succeeded in killing you." Morgan glanced down at one of the lieutenants who was searching the body. "Anything?" "Sorry, m'lord. Nothing." Morgan looked down at the body for a moment, then prodded it with his toe. "Get rid of that," he said finally. "And take care of Richard. He'll be buried in Coroth with full honors, as my liege man." "Yes, m'lord," A lieutenant said, taking off his green cloak and spreading it over the fallen squire. Morgan turned away and walked to the rail, as far as possible from the two bodies, frowned as a splash told him there were no longer two. Duncan joined him and leaned against the rail to his left. He watched his cousin for a long moment before breaking the silence. " 'All Deryni must die!'" Duncan quoted softly. "Shades of the Inquisition. Does it remind you of anything else?" Morgan nodded. "The songs they've been singing in the streets. Ran's reports from the banquet about the border raids. It adds up to one thing: this Warin

affair is getting out of hand." "That was a dedicated man standing there fust now," Duncan observed. "This Warin fellow must have a great deal of charisma. I wonder what he told that sailor to make him take his own life for the cause?" Morgan snorted. "It's not hard to imagine. 'By killing the Deryni monster, you aid all of humankind. There will be rewards for you in the Hereafter. Only through death can you escape the wrath of the Deryni, prevent him from defiling your immortal soul!'" "Powerful persuasion for the common man, where superstition already runs rampant," Duncan commented. "And I'm afraid we're going to see a lot more of it, if and when the Interdict falls. It will bring all of this out in the open. This is only a taste." "Well, I can't say I like the flavor," Morgan said. "We'll not stay long at the Orsal's court today, Duncan. I may not be able to do any more at home than I can there, but I at least want to be present when things start falling apart." "Then you're finally convinced the Interdict is a serious threat." "I never thought any different," Morgan agreed. The sun had sunk into the sea and Rhafallia was churning her way back toward the Corwyn coast before Morgan at last had time to relax and ponder the day's events. It had not been a good day. Aside from the obvious horror of attempted assassination and the death of Richard, even the meeting with the Hort of Orsal had been less than satisfying. His Hortic Majesty had been in a terrible disposition, for he had just received word that five of his prized R'Kassan stallions had been stolen from a breeding farm in his northern provinces. Torenthi border raiders had been responsible for the theft, and when Morgan and Duncan arrived the Orsal had been much more interested in recovering the animals and wreaking vengeance than in discussing mutual defense in a war that was still three months hence. So the meeting had not been fruitful in that respect. Morgan visited with his old friend and his family and was coerced into allowing the Orsal's second heir, th'e eleven-year-old Rogan, to return with him to the ducal court for knightly training. But the defense plans so vital in the coming months were never settled to Morgan's satisfaction. When the duke boarded Rhafallia to go home, two of his castle lieutenants had stayed behind to wrangle with the Orsal's advisors and sea captains and work out final details of the protective alliance. Morgan did not like delegating such crucial responsibilities to others, but there was no real choice in this particular case. He could not personally afford to spend at the Oral's court the days necessary to come to a final agreement. The weather, too, had deteriorated during the day. When Morgan sailed at sunset, it was in name only. The air was so still that the ship could not even leave the quay without the aid of oars. The crew, with the good-natured resignation that was characteristic of the men on Morgan's ships, unshipped their oars and settled down to row. And as stars began to appear in the east, the crew's rough voices sang and hummed sea chanties as old as man's first ventures on the sea. The ship was dark except for green steering lanterns fore and aft. On the afterdeck, Captain Kirby stood watchful guard beside the helmsman. Beneath him, under the shelter of the afterdeck, Master Randolph and the others of Morgan's party reclined on hard pallets and tried to sleep. The duke and Duncan were bedded down on the forward platform, sheltered against a light drizzle by a canvas canopy Kirby had rigged before they set sail. But Morgan could not sleep. Gathering his cloak around him more closely, he leaned out from under the canopy to scan the stars. The Hunter had risen from the sea in the east, and his bright belt winked frostily in the chill March

air. Morgan studied the other constellations distractedly, not thinking about what he was doing, before settling back on his pallet to sigh, hands clasped behind his head. "Duncan?" izo Deiyni Checkmate "Hmmm." "Are you asleep?" "No." Duncan sat up and nibbed a knuckled hand across his eyes. "What's the matter?" "Nothing." Morgan sighed again and clasped his knees against his chest, chin resting on folded arms. "Tell me, Duncan. Did we accomplish anything today besides the loss of a good man?" Duncan grimaced, tight-lipped in the darkness, then tried to force a light tone. "Well, we saw the Orsal's latest offspring number seven, I make it. And a 'lusty bairn,' as we say in Kierney." "Hurrah for the lusty bairn," Morgan smiled Halfheartedly. "We also saw little Orsals one through six, number three of which is now part of my entourage. Why didn't you stop me, Duncan?" "I?" Duncan chuckled. "I thought you were desperately eager for a new Hortic squire at Castle Coroth, my Lord General. Just think you can take the Orsal's son into battle with you." Morgan snorted. "The Devil I can! If I take the second heir to the Hortic throne into battle and something happens to him, God forbid, I'll end up dying for my new squire, all right. But what could I say? I owed the Orsal a favor. And it would have been very difficult to bow out gracefully with the boy standing right there." "You don't have to explain," Duncan replied. "If there's trouble, you can always put the lad on the first ship for home. I get the impression that young Rogan would Iflce that anyway," he continued wistfully. "I don't think he's the warrior type." 'Tes, hardly the sort of son I'd pictured for the Hort of Orsal. He's second in line, and I have the feeling he's not even happy about being that close." Duncan nodded. "A potential scholar or physician or monk if I ever saw one. It's a pity he'll never have the chance to pursue his true calling. Instead, he'll become some sort of minor functionary in his older brother's court when the time comes never really happy, never knowing why. Or perhaps knowing why, yet unable to do anything about it. That's the saddest part of all, I think. I grieve for him, Alaric." "So do I," Morgan agreed, knowing that Duncan, too, was feeling the futility of being trapped in a role he did not wish to play, forced by circumstances to veil his true potential and masquerade in a world he had not asked for or made. With a sigh, Morgan leaned out of his pallet to study the stars once more, then edged closer to the bow where light was streaming from the forward steering lantern. Sitting back against the railing, he stripped off his right glove, smiled as the gryphon signet on his hand winked coldly in the greentinged lantern light. Duncan scooted across the deck on hands and knees to crouch beside his cousin. "What are you doing?" "It's time for Derry's report if he's going to make one," Morgan replied, polishing the ring against a corner of his cloak. "Do you want to listen with me? I'm only going to first level trance unless he calls." "Go," Duncan said, sitting cross-legged beside Morgan and nodding his readiness. "I'm one step behind you." As both men fixed their attention on the ring, Morgan inhaled deeply to trigger the earliest stage of the Deryni Mind-Touch, then exhaled slowly as he

entered trance. His eyes closed; his breathing became slow and controlled. And then Duncan was reaching across to cover the gryphon seal with his cupped hand, to join in the rapport. They cast around for perhaps fifteen minutes, at first touching only the consciousness of crew men and members of the ducal party aboard. As they extended their awareness, they caught the ghostly flickers of other minds, contacts so fleeting as to be almost undetecta-ble, and certainly unreadable. But nowhere was there a sign of Derry. With a sigh, Morgan withdrew from the trance, Duncan following. "Well, I suppose he's all right," Morgan said, shaking his head lightly to dispel the last vestiges of fog-giness which such a search usually left behind. "Unless he's in serious trouble, I know he would have called if he'd had anything to report." He smiled. "I'm afraid our young friend Derry liked his first taste of magic far too much to pass up the opportunity for a repeat performance if there was the slightest excuse he could use. I think he's probably safe." Duncan chuckled as he crawled back to his pallet. "It's a little surprising how easily he took to magic, don't you agree? He acted as though he'd been doing it all his life, hardly batted an eye when he found out I was Deryni too." "Product of long indoctrination," Morgan smiled. "Derry has been my aide for nearly six years. And up until two nights ago, I never let him see me use my powers directly. He saw the fruits of those powers on occasion, though, if not the methods. So when the time finally came to get involved himself, there was no question in his mind as to whether being Deryni was a bad thing. He knew better. He shows remarkable potential, too." "Could he be part Deryni?" Morgan shook his head and lay down. "I'm afraid not. Which raises another interesting question. It makes one wonder what other humans could do, given the chance, if they weren't so damned convinced that magic is evil. Derry, for example, shows remarkable adaptability. There are a number of simple spells I could teach him right now if he were here, and he'd have no difficulty whatever in mastering them. And he doesn't even have ancestry through one of the original human families that carries the potential for receiving power like Brion did, or like the Orsal's line." "Well, I hope he's careful," Duncan murmured, rolling over and* pulling his cloak over himself with a grunt. "A little knowledge can be dangerous, especially if it happens to be Deryni knowledge. And right now, the world can be a very dangerous place for Deryni sympathizers." "Derry can take care of himself," Morgan said. "He thrives on danger. Besides, I'm sure he's safe." But Derry was not safe. CHAPTER EIGHT For there cometh a smoke out of the north, and there is no straggler in his ranfa. Isaiah 14:31 BUT DERRY was not safe. That morning after leaving Fathane, he had decided to head north toward Medras to see what he could learn. He did not plan to go all the way to that city, for there was not sufficient time if he was to be back in Coroth by the following night as Morgan had ordered. But Medras was where Torenthi troops were reputed to be gathering. If he were prudent, he might be able to gain valuable information to relay back to Morgan. Of course, he had reminded himself as he rode out the gates of Fathane, he would have to exercise a great deal more caution if he intended to do his work

in another establishment like the Jack Dog Tavern of the night before. Last night's altercation in the alley had been far more brutal than he cared to repeat. And that was yet another reason for quitting Fathane as soon as possible. He didn't want to be connected with those two bodies in the alley. He doubted that any of his drinking companions of the night before would even be able to remember him, much less connect him with the deaths. But witnesses had a bad habit of remembering things at the most inopportune times. And if, by some quirk of fate, those did well, life would be neither easy nor long for one who had dared to kill two of Wencit's hand-picked spies. So he had ridden north and inland toward the city of Medras, stopping occasionally at inns and wells to chat with the local folk and to peddle some of the furs in the pack behind his saddle. By noon he had reached the turn-off road to Medras, only minutes behind a large company of foot soldiers bound for that city. And he had very nearly been stopped and questioned by a pair of men from the rear guard of that troop. If there had been any doubt in his mind before, that incipient threat convinced Derry that he had best, indeed, not go on to Medras. It was time to head west, back into Corwyn. Dusk found Derry crossing the rolling northern reaches of Morgan's territory, the fertile buffer region separating Corwyn from Eastmarch. The roads near the border were notoriously poor, and the one Derry had chosen was no exception, but he had made good time since crossing the Torenth-Corwyn border. Now, as darkness approached, however, Derry's horse stumbled and slowed on the rough footing. Derry sighed and forced himself to pay more attention to his riding. It would soon be dark, but he had a definite destination in mind before he stopped for the night. For while this was Morgan country, it was also Warin country, if rumor was correct. There was a town ahead with a passable inn. Besides dinner, of which Derry was sorely in need, there might be valuable information to be gleaned. Whistling a merry tune under his breath as he rode, Derry glanced at the horizon slightly to his left, then stared. That was strange. Unless he was seriously mistaken, the sunset glow behind the next hill was not only in the wrong place (indeed he had seen the sun set thirty degrees farther to the right), but it was growing brighter instead of darker. Fire? Drawing rein to listen and sniff the wind, Derry frowned, then left the road and struck out across the open fields toward the hill. The bitter, acrid bite of smoke was strong in his nostrils now. And as he neared the crest of the hill, he could see the black clouds of smoke billowing into the still-pale sky ahead. Now, too, he was aware of shouts echoing on the chill night air. Suspecting the worst, and hoping that he was wrong, Derry slipped from the saddle and covered the remaining few yards on foot. His face went grim as he dropped to his stomach to scan the scene below. Fields were burning. Perhaps thirty or forty acres of winter wheat stubble were smoldering to the south, and actual flames were threatening a modest manor house just off the road Derry had left. But it was not only fire which threatened the inhabitants of the manor house. There were armed horsemen plunging about in the manor courtyard, flailing about them with swords and lances, cutting down the green-liveried men on foot who tried futilely to ward off their blows. All that was noble in Derry cried out in that instant. For one of the first precepts of knightly honor was to defend the helpless and the innocent. He wished desperately to go to the rescue. Yet reason told him, rightly, that there was nothing one lone man could do against such odds except himself be cut down. And though he might very well

have taken a number of marauders to the grave with him, it would be a useless death. Dying would not get word back to Morgan of what was happening here, or help the manor's occupants. As Derry watched, sick at heart, his eye caught the flicker of new fires starting to the north of the main one, and men on horseback with torches in their hands. As the new group rallied and waited at the road, Derry saw that the fighting was over in the courtyard, that all the liveried men were still. There was, he noted with satisfaction, another figure on the ground one not in livery. But his comrades picked him up and put him across a horse, then waited until two other men with torches came running from the manor house to mount up and ride. Smoke curled from the rear of the manor house-smoke from a place where there was no chimney and Derry gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait as the last of the marauders galloped out of the courtyard and joined their companions, then disappeared over the hills to the west. Cursing softly under his breath, Derry ran back to his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and began careening wildly down the hillside. The manor house was blazing strongly now, and there was no chance that it could be saved. But Derry had to be certain that there was no one left alive in that scene of carnage. He was able to make his way to within fifty yards of the manor before flames from the burning wheat stubble forced him to return to the road. And then he had to blindfold his horse with his cloak before the animal would pass between the flames to either side of the manor gate. He steeled himself as he drew rein. It had been the manor of a lord of modest means. The house was unpretentious, though well kept what was left of it. And the lord's retainers had apparently made the best stand they could. There were half a dozen bodies in the yard, more on the porch: most of them old, all wearing blood-stained livery of the same green and silver as the coat of arms above the ruined gate. Vert, three wheat sheaves proper on a chevron argent. Motto; Non concedo - I do not concede.' Surety these men did not concede, Derry thought as he picked his way across the courtyard and scanned the bodies. / wonder of their lord, though. Where is he? He heard a moan from his left and saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. As he turned his horse to investigate, he saw a hand lift in supplication. He slipped from the saddle to kneel at the side of an old bearded man who also wore the green and silver livery. "Who who are you?" the old man gasped, clutching at Derrys cloak and pulling him closer to squint in the fire-lit darkness. "You're not one of them-" Derry shook his head and eased the man's head against his knee. It was getting darker, and the man's face was scarcely more than a blur in the railing light, but it was enough for Derry to see that he was dying. "My name is Scan Lord Derry, friend. I'm the duke's man. Who did this to you? Where is your lord?" "Scan Lord Derry," the man repeated, his eyes closing against the pain. "I've heard of you. You sit on the young king's Council, don't you?" "Sometimes," Derry said, frowning in the darkness. "But right now it's more important that you tell me what has happened. Who's responsible for this?" The old man lifted one hand and gestured vaguely toward the west. "They came out of the hills, my lord. A band of Warin de Grey's ruffians. My young master, the Sieur de Vali, is gone to Rhelledd to seek the duke's aid for all of the local landowners, but alas..." His words trailed off and Derry thought he had lost him, but then the creaky old voice continued. "Tell the duke we fought loyal to the end, my lord. Though we are but old men

and boys, tell him we would not give in to the 'Holy One,' no matter what his minions threatened. We " He coughed, and dark blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. But then he seemed to gain strength from somewhere, and he raised his head a few inches, pulling himself up on Derrys cloak. "Your dagger, my lord. May I see it?" Derry frowned, wondering if the man meant to ask for the coup de gr^ce. It must have shown on his face, for the man smiled and shook his head as he relaxed against Derry's knee once more. "I will not ask that of you, young lord," he whispered, his eyes searching Derry's. "I do not fear death. I but seek the solace of a cross to ease my passage into that other world." Derry nodded, his face grave and solemn, and pulled his dagger from its boottop sheath. Grasping it by the blade, hilt uppermost, he held it before the man's eyes, a faint shadow from the flame-light falling across the man's face. The man smiled and pulled the cross hilt down to touch it with his lips. And then the hand went slack, and Derry knew the man was dead. Rest in peace, good and faithful servant, Derry thought, crossing himself with the hilt of the blade and replacing it in its sheath. So Warin de Grey strikes again. Only this time, instead of threats and burning, there's murder, wholesale slaughter. Taking a last glance around the desolate courtyard, now illuminated only by the growing flames in the manor house, Derry stood and toyed with the ends of his reins in indecision, then remounted. He should not really do what he was about to do. By all rights, he should go to a safe place and wait until it was time to contact Morgan. His commander would definitely not approve of the risk Derry was now considering. But logic was not always the best answer, Derry had found. Sometimes, in order to get things done, unorthodox methods must be used. Even at the risk of great personal danger. Touching spurs to his mount, Derry clattered out of the courtyard and down the road the marauders had taken. If he was any judge of mobs, Warm's raiders would not go far tonight. It was late for travel on these roads, and there was no moon. Besides that, the riders had a dead or wounded man on their hands. If he was merely wounded, there was an excellent chance that they would stop before too long to tend his hurt. In addition, there was the question of Warin himself. He had not been with the group at the manor. Derry had been fairly certain of that as he watched the carnage done. And the old man in the courtyard had not mentioned the presence of the dynamic rebel leader only his men. Derry was certain Warin would have been recognized, had he been present. Which meant that Warin was possibly somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps with another band. And that he might rendezvous with the rest of his men before the night was through. Derry must try to be there when that occurred. The next hour was torture for Derry. As night descended, the sparsely populated countryside became darker and darker. And the quality of the roads had not improved on leaving the manor of the Sieur de Vali, either. He apparently made much better time than he thought, however. For long before he expected, the dim, flickering lights of the village of Kingslake were winking cheerily in the darkness ahead. And as Derry guided his footsore mount along the main road through the village, he suddenly saw the bulk of the Royal Tabard Inn looming against the night sky. Here, if he was lucky, he could get a fresh horse before continuing his pursuit, perhaps even leam which direction the riders had taken for the road forked beyond Kingslake. The Royal Tabard Inn was two stories high, a Sturdy wooden building nearly two hundred years old with" accommodations for forty guests and a taproom renowned for miles around. It had been Derry's original destination before he came upon

the burning manor, and now he wished he dared stop for a tankard of ale before continuing. But as Derry approached the livery stable adjoining the inn, he noticed several dozen steaming horses tethered outside, a single man standing guard. The man was well armed, which was unusual since he wore only nondescript peasant garb. But there was a fierce, confident air about him, an aura of deadly purpose that made Derry look twice. Was it possible that he was one of the raiders? That they had chosen the Royal Tabard as a resting place? Scarcely daring to believe his unprecedented good fortune, Derry dismounted and led his mount into the livery stable. Arrangements for a fresh horse took only minutes, and thfen Derry was striding out of the stable toward tHe inn, his purpose a mug of ale, in case the guard should ask. He touched his cap and nodded amiably as he passed the man, and the man nodded pleasantly enough. But there was something strange about him, about the embroidered badges on his left shoulder and cap depicting a falcon. Derry was frowning as he entered the inn. Inside, the scene was not at all what Derry had expected. He had thought, as he approached, that the inn was far too quiet for the number of horses tied outside. That many drinking men should have been more noisy. Even the mere patronage of local townsfolk should have provided at least a low hum of conversation on an ordinary nigh't. But it was not an ordinary night. The local citizens of the village and countryside were there; and they were drinking. Nor were they being molested by the men on the other side of the room men who also wore the falcon badge the same men Derry had watched at the de Vali manor. But no one spoke. And trie riders from the marauder band were hovering quietly around one of the long trestle tables which had been pulled to the left side of the room, watching over a still, bloodstained form which lay sprawled on that table. As Derry made his way to a chair which seemed to be in neutral territory, he frowned. The man on the table the same he had thought killed by de Vali's defenders was apparently not dead yet; for a thin girl in peasant garb was bathing his head with towels wrung from a wooden basin at her side. He moaned as she worked, and her eyes darted nervously over the men who surrounded and watched her. But there, too, there was no word spoken. Another girl brought a tray of earthen mugs filled with ale and distributed them to the riders, and some of them sat quietly and sipped at their drinks. But there was no conversation, no excessive movement. It was as though the men were waiting, listening. The townsfolk on the other side of the room sensed it too; and they waited. Derry picked up the tankard of ale the proprietor brought and took a long pull, forced himself to gaze into the depths of the ale rather than stare at the raiders. What was going on? he wondered. Were they waiting for Warin to come? And what did they hope to do for the man on the table, who was clearly near death? There was the sound of horsemen drawing rein outside, perhaps as many as twenty, and shortly a second group of riders entered. These, too, wore the falcon badge on cloaks and hats. And their leader, after a whispered conference with one of the men attending the wounded man on the table, gestured for his own men to join their colleagues. Again, tankards were brought. And again, there was no further conversation. Apparently the new man was not Warin either. Thus the situation remained for nearly half an hour, while Derry downed a second and third tankard of ale and tried to fathom what was happening. Then there was again the sound of hoofbeats on the road outside, this time only about a dozen. And as the horses stopped, amid snorts and jingling harness

hardware, the room grew suddenly stiller yet. There was a taut, electric tension in the air. As Derry turned slowly toward the doorway, the door swung back to frame a figure who could only be Warin himself. Derry froze with everyone else in the room, not daring to breathe. Warin was not a large man. In fact, were it not for his regal bearing, he might have been considered short. But this was totally overshadowed by the fact that the man had presence, which radiated outward from his person like a living entity. The eyes were dark, almost black, with a wild, even reckless intensity which sent a shiver up Derr/s spine as the man's glance touched him in scanning the room. (Derry had seen that look on Morgan's face once, and he shuddered anew as he remembered the consequences of the deeds which followed.) Warm's hair was brown and crinkled, a dusty dun color, closely cropped; and he wore a very short beard and mustache of the same dun hue. Alone of all his men, Warin wore what could have been styled a uniform: a solid grey leather jerkin over tunic, hose, and high boots of the same shade except that the falcon badge on his breast was large, covering most of his broad chest, and the cap badge on his close grey hat was silver rather than sewn. His grey leather riding cloak was full and long, almost brushing the floor. And he was totally unarmed as far as Derry could see. There was a whisper of movement across the room, and Derry suddenly found himself able to breath'e again. He hazarded a glance at Warm's men clustered around the table and saw that all had bowed their heads and brought closed right fists to their hearts on Warm's entrance. As Warm nodded acknowledgment, they looked expectantly at the man on the table and moved aside. Warm strode briskly into their midst, and the townspeople gathered courage and moved to the center of the room to see what the rebel leader would do. Derry cautiously made himself a part of that group. "What has happened?" Warm asked. His voice was low, measured, crackling with authority. "At the manor of the Sieur de Vali, Holy One," the spokesman of the first group said meekly. "De Vali had ridden to ask the duke's aid, and his men resisted. We had to put the manor to the torch." Warm turned wide, dark eyes on the man. "That was unwise, Ros." Ros fell on his knees, cowering, and buried his face in his hands. "Forgive me, Holy One," he whispered. "I have not your wisdom." "See it does not happen again," Warin replied with a slight smile, touching the man's shoulder in a gesture of acceptance. As the man scrambled to his feet, face transfigured with awe, Warin returned his attention to the wounded man and began stripping off his grey leather gloves. "Where is the injury?" "In his side, Lord," a man on the opposite side of the table murmured, drawing aside the man's rent tunic to show the wound. "I fear the lung may be pierced." Warin leaned to inspect the wound, then moved to the man's head and lifted an eyelid. He nodded to himself, then straightened and tucked his gloves into his belt, glanced at the men who watched him so eagerly. "With God's help we shall save this man," he said, Spreading his arms to either side in a gesture of supplication. "Will you pray with me, brethren?" To a man, Warm's followers dropped to their knees, their eyes riveted on their leader as he closed his eyes and began to pray. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctf, Amen. Oremus." As Warin intoned the Latin phrases, Derry watched wide-eyed and then forced himself to look even more closely. For unless he, too, was falling under the powerful charisma of the rebel leader, there was a faint glow beginning to surround Warm's head a misty blue violet aura which resembled nothing so much

as a halo! Derry controlled a gasp, then bit his lip and tried to use the pain to break the illusion. There was no way this could be happening. Human beings did not have halos, and there were no more saints. But neither was His mind playing tricks on him. Morgan had taught him to see through illusion; but this was real, no matter how hard Derry tried to make it disappear. ". . . And therefore, O God, send thy healing spirit through these hands, that thy servant Martin may live to glorify Thee. Through Jesus Christ thy Son, our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever, Amen." As Warin finished speaking, he lowered his right hand to rest lightly on the wounded man's forehead, then let his left drop to cover the blood-frothed wound in the man's side. There was deathly silence for nearly a minute, and Derry's heart pounded as the light he was sure couldn't really be there seemed to extend itself down Warm's arms and into the still form beneath. Then the man called Martin shuddered and exhaled a long sigh, opened his eyes and blinked in amazement to find his leader standing over him. Warin opened his eyes and smiled, then helped Martin to sit. There was a long murmur of awe as Martin stood down from the table and took the tankard someone offered. As he drained it, one of the townspeople gasped and pointed to the man's side. There was no sign of any wound except the bloody tear in his homespun tunic. "Deo gratias," Warin murmured, crossing himself and lowering his eyes. The aura had all but disappeared now, and he glanced around curiously as he pulled his gloves from his belt and began to don them. There was blood on his left hand where he had touched Martin's wound, and one of his men noticed that fact and dropped to his knees beside Warin to wipe the hand with a comer of his cloak. Warin smiled and rested his hand on the man's head for just an instant, as though in blessing, then returned to his gloving without comment. The man got to his feet with a look of pure bliss on his face. Warm's glance swept the room once more, and again Derry felt that chill sensation as the eyes touched his. Then Warin was moving toward the door. At his movement, his men drained their tankards and scrambled to their feet, gathering the belongings they had brought with them and crowding after him. One of Warm's lieutenants pulled gold coins from a poucK and paid the innkeeper. And as Warin reached the door one of the townsfolk suddenly threw himself to his knees and cried, "It's a miraclel The Lord has sent us a new messiah!" Almost instantly, his words were taken up by half the people in the tavern, who fell to their knees and crossed themselves fervently. As Warin turned in the doorway, Derry knelt too although he most certainly did not believe there had been any miracle involved. The rebel leader scanned the room a final time, his gaze calm, beneficent, then raised his right hand in benediction before disappearing into the darkness. As soon as the last Warin retainer had filed from the tavern, Derry jumped to his feet and ran to the window. Now that Warin was out of the room and Derry could think clearly again, he realized what it was about the man which had been so disconcertingly familiar. It was that presence he had felt in men like Morgan, Duncan, Brion, the young King Kelson. That impression of raw power and command which almost always went with a talent not in the best of repute these days. He peered through the misty glass of the tavern window and watched as Warin and his band disappeared down the road in a glow of torchlight. He would not follow them. With what he had learned, there was no need of that right now. Besides, he had to get this new information to Morgan as soon as possible. It was quite late. He knew he had missed the appointed time for contact with his commander by well over an hour; but no matter, if he rode hard and met no

further mishap, he could be back in Coroth shortly after noon tomonow. He could hardly wait to see Morgan's face when he told him he thought Warin might be a Deryni! CHAPTER NINE And he will send them a savior, and a defender, and he will deliver them. Isaiah 19:20 "WARIN is what?" Morgan gasped. "Derry, you must be joking!" Morgan and Duncan were sitting under a tree in the exercise yard adjoining the armory where they had been spaning with broadswords when Derry had thundered through the gates of Castle Coroth half an hour before. Derry was tired and hungry as he squatted on the grass beside his commander. But his eyes glittered as he related all that had happened at the Royal Tabard the night before. Morgan wrapped his towel more closely around his exercise tunic and mopped his face, for he was still sweating from the workout Duncan had given him. Derry did not challenge his outburst, and after a few seconds the duke shook his head in disbelief. "Well, this is certainly unexpected," he said, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Derry, are you sure?" "Of course I'm not sure," Derry replied, pulling his hunt cap from his tousled brown hair and slapping the dust from it in agitation. "But can humans do what he did, m'lord?" "No." "Father Duncan, do you think Warin is a saint?" "There have been stranger ones," Duncan replied enigmatically, thinking of his vision on the road. Derry pursed his lips thoughtfully, then looked back at Morgan. "Well, he did heal that man, M'Lord. And from what you've told me, I had the impression that only Deryni could do that." "I can do that," Morgan amended, scowling at the ground between his bare legs. "I don't know that other Deryni can. I'd never heard of it being done in recent times until I used it to save your life last year." Derry bowed his head, remembering the attack on the guard detail he had commanded the night before Kelson's coronation. How they had been taken by surprise and overpowered in the darkness. The searing pain as a sword pierced his side and he fell, thinking never to rise again. And then waking in his own quarters, his wound gone as though it had never existed. And a puzzled physician bending over him, unable to explain. And Morgan telling him, weeks later, how he had laid his hands on Derry's brow and healed. Derry looked up again, then nodded. "I'm sorry, m'lord. I meant no disrespect. But you are Deryni, and you can heal. And so can Warin." "And so can Warin," Morgan repeated. "Well, if he is Deryni, he certainly can't be aware of what he is," Duncan said, scratching his leg and cocking his head at his cousin. "Personally, I find it difficult to believe that the man of the rumors I've heard could be such a hypocrite to persecute his own race." "It's been done before." "Oh, certainly it's been done before, and by experts. There are always some men who will sell out anything for the right price. But that's not the impression I get about Warin. He's sincere. He's convinced that his cause is just, that he has a divine calling. And what you've just told us, Derry, about healing the wounded man, his effect on his men that simply confirms my impression." "The trouble is," Morgan said, standing and retrieving his sword, "that Warm

does the things saints and messiahs traditionally do. Unfortunately, those same deeds are not commonly attributed to Deryni, even though the legends of many Christian saints may have their origin in Deryni powers. Knowledge of this would certainly quell any thought of rebellion but how do you impart this knowledge when Warm's people are as loyal and devoted as Derry says they are?" Derry nodded his head. "That's right, m'lord. Already, his followers look on him as a Holy One, a saint. Those villagers in Kingslake are convinced they saw a miracle performed before their eyes, in the finest old biblical tradition. How do you fight something like that? How do you tell people their messiah is a fake? That he's the very thing he preaches against, only he doesn't know it? Especially if you want people to come out liking Deryni in the end?" "You tell them very carefully, and by slow degrees," Morgan said softly. "And right now, you don't tell them at all. Because for now, unless we can do something about it, the people are flocking to his cause." "And will flock even more when they find out what the archbishops have planned," Duncan added. "Der-ry, you didn't know this, but Archbishop Loris has summoned all the bishops of the realm to meet in conclave at Dhassa the day after tomorrow. Bishop Tolliver left this morning he dared not refuse the summons. Nor will he dare to say no when Loris presents his decree of Interdict before the assembled Curia. I think you know what that means." "Can they really lower an Interdict on Corwyn?" Derry asked. They began walking toward the main courtyard, Morgan and Duncan carrying their swords, Derry twirling his cap. "They can, and they will unless something is done," Morgan replied. "Which is why Duncan and I are leaving for Dhassa tonight. Direct appeal to the Curia is probably hopeless; I doubt they would listen, no matter what I had to say. But Loris won't be expecting it. And I may at least be able to impress them enough to make them think about what they're doing. If the Interdict falls, with Warin as strong as he is now, I think the countryside will follow him in a holy war against Deryni. Even if I have to pretend to go along, submit myself to the Curia for penance, I can't allow that to happen." "May I come with you, m'lord?" Derry asked, glancing up at Morgan hopefully as they walked along. "I could be a bit of help, I think." "No, you've already been a great deal of help, Derry, and I have a more important task for you. After you've gotten a few hours sleep I want you to ride for Rhemuth. Kelson must be told what has happened, and Duncan and I can't do it if we're to reach the Curia before it's too late. If Kelson has already left for Culdi by the time you arrive, follow him there. It's vital that he be aware of all you've told us this afternoon." "Aye, m'lord. Shall I try to contact you?" Morgan shook his head. "If there's need, we'll contact you. Meanwhile, get some sleep. I want you on your way by dark." "Right." As Derry hurried away, Duncan shook his head and sighed. "What's the matter?" Morgan asked. "Are you discouraged?" "I'm certainly not encouraged." "Cousin, you have read my mind again. Come. We'd better get cleaned up. Hamilton should have my officers ready for briefing in about an hour. I have a feeling it's going to be a very long afternoon." Midway through that same afternoon Bronwyn walked leisurely along the terrace at Castle Culdi. The sun had shone brightly all day, drying out the damp of the past weeks' rain. The birds of the south had already begun to return from their winter sojourn, warbling their brave songs in the awakening garden. Bronwyn paused at the balustrade and leaned over to look at a fishpond a few feet below, then resumed her stroll, luxuriating in the sweet, warm air and comfortable surroundings of the ancient palace. Twirling a strand of burnished

hair between her fingers, she smiled to herself and let her thoughts ramble as she continued to walk. The wedding party had arrived in the mountain city of Culdi the night before, after a pleasant, if damp, day's ride from Kevin's capital in Kierney. There had been a ball, and this morning had been spent in a hunt in honor of the bride and groom to be. She and Lady Margaret had passed the earlier part of the afternoon inspecting the budding gardens, with Bronwyn showing her future mother-in-law all the best-loved features of the familiar area. There were fond memories in Culdi for Bronwyn, for she and Alaric, Kevin and Duncan, had spent many Kappy summers here in their childhood. The Lady Vera McLain, who had been a second mother to Bronwyn and her brother, had often brought the McLain and Morgan children to Castle Culdi in the summer. Bronwyn remembered the romps through the flowering gardens, always in bloom at the time of the year they were there; the summer Alaric fell out of a tree and broke his arm; the stoic bravery with which the eight-year-old bore the pain. She remembered the many secret passages through the walls of the castle where she and the boys used to play hide and seek. And the quiet and serene chapel where their mother was buried a place Bronwyn still liked to go to for meditation. She had never known her mother. Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had died only a few weeks after the birth of her tiny daughter, victim of the milk fever which so often claimed the lives of young mothers. Alaric remembered her or said he did. But Bronwyn's memories were only of the marvelous tales that Lady Vera spun about the lady who had borne them, and a hint of sadness that she had never been permitted to know this wonderful and shining lady. Remembering the past, Bronwyn paused on the terrace, then headed resolutely back toward her chambers. It was still fairly early. If she did not dawdle, there would be ample time to visit the little chapel before she had to dress for dinner. But the chapel would be cool and damp this time of day. She would need her cloak. She had almost reached the terrace doors to her chamber when she stumbled on a crack in the flagstone terracing, then recovered. As she leaned down to rub her foot in annoyance, she was not consciously listening for anything. But she suddenly became aware that there were voices female voices coming from her chamber. "Well, I just don't understand why you defend her so," one was saying. Bronwyn recognized the voice as that of Lady Agnes, one of her ladies-inwaiting, and she straightened and moved a little closer to the doorway as she realized they were talking about her. "That's right," another said. "It isn't as though she's one of us." That was Lady Martha. "She's a woman like us," a third voice protested softly, her tone unmistakably that of Mary Elizabeth, Bronwyn's favorite. "And if she's in love with him, and he with her, I see no shame in it for anyone." "No shame?" Agnes gasped. "But she's she's " "Agnes is right," Martha stated flatly. "The heir to the Duchy of Cassan ought to marry far higher than the daughter of a " "Than the daughter of a common Deryni!" Agnes chimed in. "She never knew her mother," Mary Elizabeth interjected, "and her father was a lord. Besides, she's only half-Deryni." "And that's half a Deryni too much to suit mel" Martha stated emphatically. "Not to mention that unspeakable brother of hers!" "She can't help who her brother is," Mary Elizabeth interrupted, forceful but calm even in the midst of argument. "And other than being a bit more open with his powers than is, perhaps, wise, there's nothing wrong with Duke Alaric. He can't help being born Deryni any more than Lady Bronwyn can. And if it weren't for the duke, there's no telling who might be ruler of Gwynedd today."

"Mary Elizabeth, are you defending him?" Agnes gasped. "Why, that's close to blasphemy!" "It is blasphemy!" Martha retorted. "Not only that, but it smacks of treason and " Bronwyn had heard enough. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned away from the chamber and moved quietly back along the terrace, finally going down the steps in the direction of the far garden. Something like this always seemed to happen. She would go along for weeks, sometimes even months, without being reminded of that one dark spectre in her background. And then, just when she began to feel she had perhaps lived down her Deryni heritage, that she had been accepted as herself, not some kind of scheming witch, an incident like this would occur. Someone would remember and use that remembrance to twist and turn the truth until it was something ugly, unclean. Why were humans so cruel? Humans/ she thought then smiled bitterly as she hurried along the path. There she was, thinking in terms of them and us again. It happened every time she had an encounter like this. But why did it have to start in the first place? There .was nothing wrong with being Deryni, despite Church dictates to the contrary. As Mary Elizabeth had pointed out, one could not control the circumstances of one's own birth. Besides, she had never really used her powers. Well, almost never. She scowled as she walked along toward her mother's chapel, folding her arms across her chest against the sudden chill of the afternoon. She had to admit that she had occasionally used her powers to heighten her senses of sight, hearing, smell, when the need arose. And she had formed a mind link with Kevin once, years ago when they were both young and the sport of doing something forbidden had outweighed their fear of punishment had they been caught. Just as she sometimes called the birds to her Hands in the gardens to feed them though she made very certain that no one was watching when she did so. But what could be wrong with that kind of magic anyway? How could they say it was wrong, evil? They were jealous that was alii As she considered this point, she became aware of a taH figure coming